LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Cliap.3:S-3Copyright No. 

Slielf_A-l5.St 

]S^m — 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



SOME 



Homely Little Songs 



Alfred James Waterhouse 




San Francisco 

THE WHITAKER & RAY CO. 

(incorporated) 

1899 



Library of Gcus^ec^ 
Office cf Iho 



Begfster of Copyrights, 

"PS 3646 

53841 



Copyright, iS^g 
.. BY .. 

Alfred James Waterhouse 



SfeCOND COPY, 

^ SUE. .VS-^ "^ 



To one whbse love has never varied — my mother — this 
book of Homely Little Songs is dedicated. 



INDBX. 



When Baby Prays 9 

Bunner of 'Frisco 11 

He Drifted 13 

Now, Why Was This ? 15 

When the Baby Died 17 

Nighttime in California 19 

O'er the Sea of Dreams 32 

When I Went Out A-Harvesting Zi 

Arcady 27 

Lo, I Am the Changeless 29 

When Pa Firs' Et Tabasco Sauce 31 

When Uncle Jabez Come 34 

"I Plead Thy Love" 37 

How the Flowers Grow 38 

Hey There, Little Girls .10 

The Teacher Knows 43 

Swing Low, Stars 45 

When Mother Called 47 

Two Prayers 49 

Save Your Letters 52 

It's Christmas Time 54 

"HisLifeA Failure" 56 

'Tis the Secret of Youth 58 

Jim Was Peculiar 60 

Deuce Take Philosophy ! 62 

Out in the Mountains 64 

My Little Mother's Prayer 67 



b INDEX. 

As the Years Go By 70 

My Daughter's Priscilla 72 

At the Bottom of the Sea 74 

Little White Sister 77 

The Schoolgirl That I Hated 81 

If Dreams Were Gold 85 

When the Stars Sleep 87 

In the City, the City 89 

City and Country Ways 91 

The Olden Days, The Golden Days 94 

To the Pioneers that Remain 97 

A Little, Little Fellow 99 

Who Knew This Man ? 102 

The Boys of the Country Press 104 

WeShallRest Sweetly 106 

I Judged He Was Right 108 

A Song for the Little Chaps 110 

We Weary of it All 112 

A Lullaby 114 

It is Well to Remember 116 

Waiting for Santa Claus 117 

As I Would Believe 120 

As I Lie Here and Dream 122 

A Song for the Under Dog 124 

What is the Dream in my Baby's Eyes ? 127 

My Grandsire's " Let Us Pray " 129 

When Wheat is Worth a Dollar 133 

The Land Where Our Dreams Come True 136 

Here's to the Man Who Rises Again 138 

Her Faith Never Falters 140 

When I Go Out on My Wheel 142 



INDEX. 7 

A Song for the Rank and File 144 

Hushaby, Lullaby 147 

In Our Land of California 149 

Reach Down from Your Heaven 153 

The Poor Little Birdies 154 

The Brook That Ran Down to the Mill 156 

As We Jog On Together 158 

" My Brother'll Be All Right" 160 

Knee-deep in Clover 164 

Tenderly Take and Hold Them 166 

When the Old Man Dreamed 168 

" I'm Praying for You " 173 

The Old, Old Song 175 






Some Ibomel^ Xittle Sonas. 



WHEN BABY PRAYS. 

TIT HEN baby by her crib at night 
^ • Enfolds her little hands to pray- 
Dear little hands so soft and white, — 
I listen while the sweet lips say: 
" Now I 'ay me down to s'eep, 
I p'ay the Lord my soul to teep;" 
And, listening, years are backward rolled; 
The past is as a tale untold. 

And, standing by my mother mild — 

Dear mother, with your hair of white- 
Again I am a little child, 

And say again, as yester night: 
" If I s'ould die before I wate, 
I pa'y the Lord my soul to tate;" 
And half it seems in baby's plea 
The olden faith comes back to me. 



WHEN BABY PRAYS. 



Ah me! I know my faith is but 

A phantom of the long ago; 
Yet, when my babe, with eyehds shut, 
Repeats the words I used to know: 
Now I "ay me down to s'eep. 
I p'ay the Lord my soul to teep," 
Someway, someway, the world-doubts flee; 
• The old, sweet faith comes back to me. 

It comes again, the old, sweet faith; 

It is my own, it is my own, 
And doubt has fled, the gloomy wraith, 
Before a baby's words alone: 

" If I s'ould die before I wate, 
I p'ay the Lord my soul to tate." 
So, for a baby's lisping plea. 
My thanks, dear Lord, my thanks to Thee. 



BUNi\Elsl OF 'FRISCO. 



BUNNER OF 'FRISCO. 

"OUNNER of 'Frisco — knew him well; 
^~* Queer little chap as ever you met; 
Always insistin' that war was hell — 

" Regular Hades it is, you bet." 
When there resounded the call " To Arms ! " 

Bunner of 'Frisco was first to go; 
Sailed to the field of death and alarms, 

Always remarkin', " It's hell, you know." 

Bunner of 'Frisco — once a squad 

Got where the " gugus " were fifty to one. 
Wholly surrounded, their summons to God 

Came with each crack of a savage's gun. 
" Boys," said the sergeant, " one, you know, 

Must go to the captain our case to tell. 
Probably death for him — who will go?" 

" I will," says Bunner, " but war is hell." 

Bunner of 'Frisco — up the hill, 
While demons yelled, and over its crest; 

And the bullets sung, and their song was shrill- 
Now, Bunner of 'Frisco, now do your best! 



BUNNER OF 'FRISCO. 



He did it, by Heaven ! On and on, 
Into the river where missiles hailed; 

Wounded and staggering, growing wan, 
Never a moment he halted or quailed. 

Bunner of 'Frisco — into the camp. 

Gory and dying, he staggered, they say, 
Wiped from his forehead the ultimate damp, 

Delivered his message and fainted away. 
He spoke once again: "The boys will be 
saved " — 

Slowly the words from his ashen lips fell; 
Turned his dim eyes to where the flag waved — 

" The boys will be saved, but — war — war is — 
hell." 



Bunner of 'Frisco, I don't know 

Whither you journey, or where you drift. 
Past where the life-tides ebb and flow. 

There where the waves of Eternity shift; 
But one thing I know, or I think I do. 

You followed your duty through pain and woe, 
And I judge, in the place that was kept for you. 

You never will murmur, " It's hell, you know." 



HE DRIFTED. 13 



HE DRIFTED. 

HE drifted along on the river of life — 
Just drifted 
When the current grew sullen, and weary the 
strife, 

He shifted. 
He would sit on a box in the glint o' the sun 
An' whittle up sticks around, one after one. 
With plenty to do an' with little yet done, 
He drifted. 

With a talent for restin' this ease-takin' man 

Was gifted, 
Though he'd fish from a bank where a slow river 
ran, 

Or shifted. 
For he said that to labor was too much like 

work, 
An' he guessed he could live and the hard strug- 
gles shirk, 
An' he 'lowed that old Fortune's best smile is a 
smirk — 

So he drifted. 



14 HE DRIFTED. 



When the messenger came and beckoned him on 

He drifted 
Through the door in the mist which the death 
angel wan 

Uplifted; 
An' if he reached Heaven I'm here to suggest 
In the shade of the throne he is takin' a rest, 
An' wonderin' if harp-bangin' can't be sup- 
pressed 

Where he's drifted. 



.\01V, WHY IV AS THIS? 15 



NOW, WHY WAS THIS? 

WJ HEN the baby came he was homely as sin, 
With a very bald pate and a very weak 
chin, 

With gums that were toothless and watery eyes, 

A nose like a blur and a talent for cries; 

And the women all said as he wriggled and 
scowled 

And puckered and twisted and bellowed and 
howled — 

They said as they viewed him with critical eye: 

■' He's just like his father. Now, isn't he? My! 
Why-y-y! 

You can see the resemblance with half of an eye." 

As the baby grew he was ugly some days. 
With a strong inclination a hubbub to raise; 
That his temper was grievous was plain to be 

seen, 
And with squalling and bawling he kept himself 

lean. 



1 6 NO IV, IVHV WAS THISf 

He howled till his mouth wore a permanent 

twist, 
And the pleasure of living he constantly missed; 
And when he yelled loudest the women would 

cry: 
" He favors his father. Now, doesn't he? My! 

Why-y-y! 
You can see the resemblance with half of an eye." 

But a change was seen as the baby grew. 
For his looks improved and his temper, too. 
And his smiles chased the frowns and the scowls 

away. 
And the sunbeams loved in his dimples to play; 
And I thought him sweet, in my fatherly pride. 
As he toddled along on the floor at my side; 
And then all the women who saw him would cry: 
" He's just like his mother. Now, isn't he? My! 

Why-y-y! 
You can see the resemblance with half of an eye." 



WHEN THE BABY DIED. 1 7 



WHEN THE BABY DIED. 

T 1 rHEN the baby died, so fair was she- 
Like a Hly an angel had dropped for me — 

That I said to myself: " She is only asleep," 

And I wondered that others would over her 
weep; 

And I stooped and kissed her, half dreaming she 

Would open her blue eyes unto me. 

And laugh again as on yesterday, 

And dimple and croon in the dear old way — 
. When the baby died. 

When the baby died I could not weep, 
And I said: "She is only asleep — asleep. 
She will wake ere long and I shall hear 
The prattle I love beat on my ear." 
And I smoothed all gently the golden hair, 
And I would not believe she was otherwhere 
As I cried, " My darling, look up and seel" 
But only the night wind answered me — 
When the baby died. 



1 8 WHEN THE BABY DIED. 

When the baby died — sometimes I start 
From a dream at night with a longing heart, 
For I fancy I hear through the silence wide 
A prattle of words from the babe that died. 
Then my hands fall down, though they empty be. 
For I know that my darling has gone from me. 
And the night creeps into a somber day, 
While my heart cries out: " Come back, I 
pray"— 

Since the baby died. 



NIGHTTIME IN CALIFORNIA. 19 



NIGHTTIME IN CALIFORNIA. 



IGHTTIME in California. There's noth- 



•*■ ' ing like it found. 



Though to and fro you come and go and journey 

earth around. 
The skies are like a crystal sea, with islands made 

of stars; 
The moon's a fairy ship that sails among its 

shoals and bars; 
And on that sea I sit and look, and wonder 

where it ends; 
If I shall sail its phantom wave, and where the 

journey tends, 
And if — in vain I wonder; let's change the sol- 
emn theme. 
For the nights of California were made for man 

to dream. 



NIGHTTIME IN CALIFORNIA. 



Nighttime in California. The cricket's note is 
heard, 

And now, perhaps, the twitter of a drowsy, 
dreaming bird. 

An oar is plashing yonder; the wakeful frogs re- 
ply. 

The breeze is chanting in the trees a ghostly lull- 
aby. 

The moon has touched with silver the peaceful, 
sleeping world. 

And in the weary soul of man the flag of sor- 
row's furled. 

'Tis a time for smiles and music; 'tis a time for 
love divine. 

For the nights of California are Heav'n this side 
the line. 



NIGHTTIME IN CALIFORNIA. 



Nighttime in California. Elsewhere men only- 
guess 

At the glory of the evenings that are perfect — 
nothing less; 

But here the nights, returning, are the wondrous 
gifts of God — 

As if the days were maidens fair with golden slip- 
pers shod. 

There is no cloud to hide the sky; the universe is 
ours, 

And the starlight likes to look and laugh in Cu- 
pid-haunted bowers. 

Oh, the restful, peaceful evenings! In them my 
soul delights, 

For God loved California when He gave to her 
her nights. 



O'ER THE SEA OF DREAMS. 



O'ER THE SEA OF DREAMS. 

O'ER the sea of dreams to the sweet Dream- 
land— 
Oh, little my love, come hither, I pray, 
And place in my own your wee white hand 

And we will go sailing away, away, 
Down a path of gold by the Isles of Rest, 
O'er the slumbrous depths of the Sundown 
Sea, 
To the land of lands that we love the best. 

Where dream angels whisper to you and to me. 

O'er the sea of dreams — oh, little my love, 

Closer yet creep to this heart of mine. 
While lowly the dream angels hover above 

And there in God's meadows the star-blossoms 
shine. 
Under your eyelids the visions shall creep. 

Little one, little one, what shall they be? 
Something to cause you to smile in your sleep, 

Nestling yet closer and closer to me. 



O'ER THE SEA OF DREAMS. 23 

O'er the sea of dreams to the sweet Dreamland — 

Oh, little my love, what dreams they must be, 
Such dreams as a baby may understand, 

Queer little fancies, as all must agree. 
Little half notions, or foolish or wise, 

V/ee floating fragments of babyhood lore; 
These are your dreams, as I sagely surmise — 

Heigh-ho, my little one, what are mine more? 

O'er the sea of dreams; and who's at the helm, 

Oh, little my love, nor you nor I 
May wisely tell, for the sleep king's realm 

Is hidden by mists from the passers-by. 
It is hidden by mists, yet myself I tell, 

While your eyelids flutter like petals of white: 
The One who is guiding will guide her well — 

So, little my love, good night, good night. 



24 WHEN I WENT OUT A-HARVESTING. 



I 



WHEN I WENT OUT A-HARVESTING. 

T'S well enough to talk about the joys the 
farmers know — 
Perhaps 'twill sort of brace them up to grapple 

with their woe; 
It's well to sing a pasan to the sturdy sons of 

toil 
Who labor 'neath a summer sun and boil and 

broil and boil; 
But you'll kindly please to notice I'm not joining 

in the strain, 
For my farming recollections bring to me a 

sense of pain, 
And the horny-handed granger's life to me is 

lacking charm 
Since I went out a-harvesting on Deacon Big- 
gins' farm. 



WHEN I WENT OUT AHAR VESTING- 25 

I was young and somewhat hopeful, and the dea- 
con said he'd pay 

A dollar for my services on any blessed day. 

So I went to labor for him. The recollection 
still 

Of what ensued is haunting me; I judge it ever 
will. 

For when the deacon called me in the morn at 
half past three 

To rustle out and do the chores, it was a shock 
to me; 

And I longed to kill the cattle or to do them 
other harm, 

When I went out a-harvesting on Deacon Big- 
gins" farm. 

At half past five was breakfast, and then came 

family prayers. 
I still recall the good man's words, 'mid all life's 

cumbering cares: 
" We praise Thee, Lord," he murmured, " for 

Thy mercy's constant streams — 
Now, boys, get out and hustle till you've hitched 

up all the teams." 



26 WHEN I WENT OUT A-HAR VESTING. 

And we got out and hustled, and the words we 
bandied there, 

While hitching up the weary teams, were not the 
words of prayer, 

For we judged the deacon's righteousness would 
keep us from all harm, 

When I went out a-harvesting on Deacon Big- 
gins' farm. 

Oh, days of weary labor by an awful hotness hit! 

Did I enjoy a farmer's bliss? Well, I am doubt- 
ing it. 

From half past three of mornings till ten o'clock 
of nights, 

We toiled and broiled and broiled and toiled and 
knew the farm's delights; 

And still at times I hear these words and wake 
from restless dreams: 

" We praise Thee for Thy mercy and — now hus- 
tle out the teams." 

And so I am not singing in praise of farming's 
charm. 

Since I went out a-harvesting on Deacon Big- 
gins' farm. 



AJiCADV. 27 



ARCADY. 

^ ^ (~\VT yonder," she would say to me, 

^-^" Lies Heaven-land, lies Arcady. 
Just yonder where the blue skies drop 
Beyond the distant mountain's top, 
The valley lies where all are blest; 
The land of love and peace and rest. 
Oh, let us go," she said to me, 
" And find that land of Arcady." 

And so we wandered hand in hand 
To find that peaceful, happy land; 
(Ah, that was years, long years ago. 
And we were dreamers well I know), 
But though we wandered long and far, 
From morning star to evening star, 
Yet did the happy vision flee; 
We found not lovely Arcady. 



28 ARCADY. 

And then she wearied on the way, 
More wistful grew her eyes of gray. 
(Ah, dark, sad day of long ago, 
How did my tears unceasing flow!) 
One long, long kiss — one last embrace — 
The Angel's message on her face, 
And then she passed from life and me 
And found, I know, her Arcady. 

Since then, I've wandered far and long. 
Have seen the world and met its wrong; 
I've sought in vain the land of peace, 
The land where care and trouble cease. 
'Twas but the vision of our youth — 
The years have taught their bitter truth — 
Yet still in dreams she whispers me, 
" We'll meet and love in Arcady." 



LO, I AM THE CHANGELESS. 29 



LO, I AM THE CHANGELESS. 

T O, I am the Changeless, the Deathless. 

*~^ Lo, I am the Passionless, Still. 

In my presence archangels are breathless, 

And the universe throbs at my will. 
I wait, and the ages flit by me. 

I wait, and their story is told. 
All of life and of death hovers nigh me, 

And I am the New and the Old. 

In the dust of their definite places 

My atoms, my men, they plod on; 
And they lift to the heavens their faces, 

Their faces all troubled and wan; 
And they dream, and they term their dream, 
living; 

They dream, and their dream is, to die; 
They dream they are gaining or giving — 

And over them, changeless, am I. 



30 LO, I AM THE CHANGELESS. 

They dream of the glitter of treasure — 

I shatter the dream at my will. 
They dance to the rhythm of pleasure — 

I nod, and the dancers are still. 
They dream of the glory of power, 

My atomies born for a day. 
Ay, the visions press fast for an hour — 

I nod, and the dreamers obey. 

Lo, I am the Changeless, the Deathless. 

All other shall blossom and fade. 
I speak, and the ages are breathless. 

And the drama of living is played. 
And whether the sleepers shall waken, 

Or whether they dream as they lie, 
Unheeding, uncaring, unshaken. 

None other may answer save I. 



WHEN PA FIRS' ET TABASCO SAUCE. 31 



WHEN PA FIRS' ET TABASCO SAUCE. 



HEN pa firs' et tabasco sauce — I'm smil- 



w 

• ' in' 'bout it yet, 



Although his subsekent remarks I always shall 
re(?ret. 

We'd come to town to see the sights, an' pa re- 
marked to me: 

" We'll eat at a bong tong hotel an' sling some 
style," says he. 

An' then he sort o' cast his eye among the plates 
an' all, 

An' says, " That ketchup mus' be good; the bot- 
tle is so small;" 

An' then he took a piece of meat an' covered it 
quite thick. 

When pa firs' et tabasco sauce an' rose to make 
his kick. 



32 WHEN PA FIRS' ET TABASCO SAUCE. 

It all comes back so plain to me; I rikoUect it 

well; 
He just was talkin' mild an' calm, an' then he 

give a yell 
An' tried to cave the ceilin' in by buttin' with his 

head. 
" Er-hooh! Er-hooh! Fire! Murder! Hooh! " I 

can't tell all he said, 
But when they heard his heated words six wo- 
men lef the room 
An' said such language filled their souls with 

shame an' also gloom, 
But pa he only gurgled some, an' then he yelled 

again, 
When firs' he et tabasco sauce an' told about it 

then. 



We laid him out upon a board an' fanned him 

quite a while, 
An' pa he sort o' gasped at firs' an' then he tried 

to smile. 
An' says: "Jus' heat a poker now an' run it 

down my neck — 
I want to cool off gradual; it's better, I expeck." 



WHEN PA FIRS' ET TABASCO SAUCE. 33 

But when he got me out o' doors, he says: " I 

want to get 
Thet there blame ketchup's recipe an' learn jes' 

how it's het, 
So I can try it on the boys when you an' me git 

hum, 
Till they, too, think the condiment is mixed with 

Kingdom Come." 

I've told the story, but I guess perhaps I 

oughtn't to, 
Fer pa don't go with me no more, the way he 

used to do. 
He said some words, of course I know, that were 

too sizzlin' hot. 
But still I hope up where he's gone they're all of 

them forgot. 
An' if they ain't per'aps my pa will to the an- 
gels say: 
" I wish you'd try that ketchup stuff I et down 

there that day." 
Of course I feel they can't approve, but I hope, 

just the same. 
If once they eat tabasco sauce they'll count him 

less to blame. 



34 WHEN UNCLE JABEZ COME. 



WHEN UNCLE JABEZ COME. 

T^THEN Uncle Jabez come to see my folks 

an' me out here, 
Where California's summers keep a-lingerin' 

through the year, 
He kind o' took one look around, an' then he 

says, " Amen " — 
The poppies shone like fields of gold — he whis- 
pered it again; 
An' when I asked him why, he says: " Sech 

glory everywhere! 
Yew knew, my boy, it seems tew me jest like 

ole natur's prayer;" 
And then he kind o' sighed, an' says: " I wish 

yew'd tell, I vum, 
Just haow yew folks what's livin' here can tell 

when winter's come." 



WHEN UNCLE JABEZ COME. 35 

I showed him where the mountains glow like 

fields by angels trod, 
An' how the rose keeps smilin' back unto the 

smile o' God, 
An' how the rivers sparkle on without no ice to 

chill, 
An' how the birds with all their songs keep na- 
ture all a-thrill; 
An' he, he just stood there and breathed as 

though the air was dear. 
An' says: " Ef this is heaven — well, say haow 

did I git here? 
We don't hev things like this back East; it ain't 

the same tew hum. 
Haow in tarnation dew yew tell when winter 

time hes come?" 

I showed him pumpkins overgrown. He looked, 

an' says: " B' gosh. 
Yew call that thing a punkin here? Back hum 

we call it squash." 
An' where the orange hides its gold behind a 

screen of green 
He looked, an' sighed, an' softly said: " Ef 

mother could o' seen!" 



36 WHEN UNCLE JABEZ COME. 

An' then he brushed a tear away — she died not 

long ago — 
An' the mockin' bird was whistlin' a tender song, 

an' low; 
An' then he sort o' straightened up, an' says, 

says he: "I vum, 
I can't see haow yew people know when winter 

time hes come." 

So Uncle Jabez, he's arranged to. stay out here, 

you know; 
He says he kind o' calkerlates 'twill make him 

younger grow 
To live awhile where man is close to nature's 

lovin' heart 
An' God A'mighty an' His child is not so far 

apart; 
An' then he says: "An' ef I die, the difif'rence 

will be small; 
Tew go from here tew Heav'n I guess won't be 

no jump at all." 
But when we're all alone he says: " I vaow, I'm 

puzzled some 
Tew calkerlate how I can tell jest when the win- 
ter's come." 



"/ PLEAD THY LOVE." 37 



" I PLEAD THY LOVE." 

T F I should go to-night where One doth sit 

Upon a great and white and awful throne; 
If back from me the mists of time should flit, 

Leaving my soul and me to stand alone 
In that vast presence, and if He should say: 
" What is thy plea, poor soul, for peace 
above?" 
I would not then, despairing, turn away. 
But low would answer: " Lord, I plead Thy 
love." 

I could not plead my merit. Nay, my way 

Is strewn with wrack of faith and hope and 
trust. 
Life's dawn broke golden, but its eve grows 
gray, 

And sin has turned its flowers to yellow dust. 
Yet, as a wayward child turns home at night, 

Trusting the love all other loves above. 
So will I turn, well knowing all is right, 

As low I whisper: " Lord, I plead Thy love." 



38 HO IV THE FLOWERS GROW. 



HOW THE FLOWERS GROW. 

T~^ O you know, darling, how pansies grow? 
■^■"^ God takes the tints of the sunset glow, 
The purple that floats in the mountain mist. 
The blush of a maid by her love first kissed, 
The blue that's asleep in the midday skies, 
The brown that I love in my baby's eyes, 
And He mingles them all in a flower; and so, 
That is the way that the pansies grow. 

Do you know, darling, how lilies grow? 

God takes the soul of the beautiful snow 

And molds it into a chalice sweet, 

Pure and wonderful, fair, complete; 

Then He takes the gold of my baby's hair 

And sets it amid the whiteness there, 

As in night's white skies the bright stars glow; 

And that is the way that the lilies grow. 



NO IV THE FLOWERS GROW. 39 

Do you know, darling, how roses grow? 
Ah, that is the strangest of all, I know; 
For they are the fairest of all things fair, 
The one perfect blossom, beyond compare; 
Symbol of sweetness and all loveliness — 
God wished His children to comfort and bless, 
And He wrote the thought in a flower; and so, 
That is the way that the roses grow. 



40 HEY THERE, LITTLE GIRLS. 



HEY THERE, LITTLE GIRLS. 

T T EY there, little girls, who live in the West, 
■*■ ■*■ And were born here, you know, 'cause you 

thought it was best, 
Have you ever heard tell of the wonderful East, 
Where the frost makes of little girls' noses a 

feast, 
Where the snowbirds wear stockings to warm 

their poor toes. 
And perhaps it's your finger, perhaps it's your 
nose 

That is frozen, you know. 

And your tears won't flow, 
For they freeze into ice in your eyes? Oh! Oh! 

Have you ever heard tell? 

You haven't? Well! Well! 
Now listen to me, and you'll know, know, know. 



HEY THERE, LITTLE GIRLS. 41 



Hey there, little girls, you'll be 'stonished to 

know 
That back in the East the rain is just snow; 
And the poor little kitties all have to wear fur, 
And their breath freezes hard whenever they 

purr, 
And if the dogs bark, that bark it will freeze. 
And they use it, you know, to cover the trees, 
And instead of " Hello!" 
Meeting, folks say, " I know 
That my ears both are frozen; they're frozen. 
Oh! Oh!" 

Had you ever heard tell? 
You hadn't? Well! Well! 
It really is time you should know, know, know. 

Hey there, little girls, have you ever heard tell 
How they hang their thermometers out in the 

well, 
And the mercury drops, and it drops, and it 

drops, 
'Till it reaches the water, and that's where it 

stops; 



42 HEY THERE, LITTLE GIRLS. 

And they thaw little girls — it's a terrible shock! — 
And melt them each day at just four o'clock. 

And the chilblains, you know, 

They bite at your toe 
Till it itches, and itches, and itches? Oh! Oh! 

Did you ever hear tell? 

You didn't? Well! Well! 
I'm really so glad now you know, know, know. 

Hey there, little girls; the cyclones blow there, 
And they take little children right up in the air, 
And they twist them and whirl them around and 

around 
Till their papas don't know them, supposing 

they're found; 
And sometimes they blow them clear up to the 

sky. 
And they never come back again! Never! Oh, my! 
Would you like East to go? 
You wouldn't, I know. 
For I've tried it myself, and it's dreadful. Oh! Oh! 
So you hadn't heard tell? 
You hadn't? Well! Well! 
It was certainly time you should know, know, 
know. 



THE TEACHER KNOWS. 43 



THE TEACHER KNOWS. 

f~^ NE time my teacher said, says she: 
^-^ " It's no use talkin'; seems to me 
That you're the worst boy that I've got; 
You're worser than the rest, a lot. 
I've whipped }'ou, an' I've scolded, too; 
Don't make no difference what I do; 
You keep right on jus' if I'd not. 
Ain't you the worst boy that I've got? " 

An' then my teacher said, says she: 
" Your case is always puzzlin' me. 
Now don't you know it hurts me, too. 
When scoldin' or a whippin' you? 
I always want you to be good 
An' actin' like a nice boy should, 
Because I love you " — Then she sighed, 
An' I — I — well, I up an' cried. 



44 THE TEACHER KNOWS. 

Since then my teacher's gone away, 
An' I don't go to school an' play 
An' study some, 's I used to do 
Before my schoolin' days was through. 
But still my Teacher says, says He: 
" I'm teachin' you as seems to me 
Is best; with sorrow's sting an' blow 
I'm teachin' you the way to go." 

An' then my Teacher says, says He: 

" If only you'll look up to me 

Through eyes bedimmed with trouble's rain, 

You'll learn the lesson hid in pain, 

An' know, though cruel seems the blow, 

'Twas dealt because I love you so." 

An', though I'm weary an' oppressed, 

I guess my Teacher knows the best. 



I 



SIVING LOIV, STARS. 45 

SWING LOW, STARS. 

OWING low, stars, for I want to hear your 
**^ singing. 

I want to hear the slumber song you murmur 
to the night 
In the distant, distant spaces where an angel 
host is winging 
Its way between the moonbeams to the farther 
fields of light. 
The daytime has its voices, but a cry is ringing 
through them, 
The weary cry of sorrow, the cruel cry of 
wrong. 
And we look upon God's sunlight in anguish to 
renew them — 
Swing low, stars, for I want to hear your song. 

Sleep — sleep — 

Sleep — sleep; 
Better dream than wake to weep. 

Care and doubt 

May mortals flout 
When the stars, the stars creep out. 



46 SWING LOW, STARS. 

Swing low, stars, for I've been dreaming, dream- 
ing 
That up above the crystal heights is peace and 
always peace. 
And I'm burdened by the toiling, and I'm weary 
of the scheming. 
And I'd like to find a country where the care 
and labor cease. 
The days are full of efifort, but the tranquil nights 
are tender 
As the eyes of one who loved me well, oh, long 
ago, so long; 
So I turn from pain and passion to the nights of 
peaceful splendor — 
Swing low, stars, for I want to hear your song. 

Rest — rest — 

Children, rest; 
Care is but a daytime guest. 

None should weep — 

Children, sleep — 
While the stars their vigils keep. 



WHEN MOTHER CALLED. 47 



WHEN MOTHER CALLED. 

"]\ yT OTHER used to come and say: 

Come, little boy, it's time to rise. 
Wake right up, without delay; 

Shaice yourself and rub your eyes." 
An' I'd say: " Huh! Wha — Ye-e-es," and then- 
Go right oflf to sleep again. 

After while she'd come and say, 

Just as gently as before: 
" Wake and see this lovely day. 

Don't go to sleep, dear, any more." 
An' I'd say: "Yes — I'm — coming;" then — 
Go right off to sleep again. 

Didn't matter though; no less 

Patient, gentle, kind was she 
When she came and said: " I guess 

My little boy asleep must be." 
An' I said: "I'll — get — up," and then — 
Went right ofif to sleep again. 



48 WHEN MOTHER CALLED. 

Then my grandpa came to call. 

'Twas but little that he said; 
Just one word, and that was all, 

Just one word, and that, " hX-fred ! 
Just one word, you see, but then — 
I didn't go to sleep again. 

Just that difference! But, you see, 
I've been thinking here alone. 

Should my mother now call me 
In the tender, gentle tone 

Of the past, I'd wake, and then — 

I wouldn't go to sleep again. 



TH^O PR A VERS. 49 



TWO PRAYERS. 

/^"^REAT God, 'tis not for soul or heart 
^""^ I plead with thee; 

Nor that I act a nobler part, 

Or better be; 
'Tis not that I erect may stand 

While life-dreams crash, 
Nor that I reach a helping hand, 

But just for cash. 



Lord, give me cash; I fain would be 

Like all the rest; 
No other god than red gold see, 

But hold it best. 
I'd barter honor, virtue, good 

That life may hold, 
And make my higher nature's food 

Just gold — gold — gold. 



50 TIVO PRA VERS. 



The sorry sting of other's pain 

I would not know, 
For callous hearts may hope for gain 

In coin; and so 
I'd bury sympathy for all 

And hug myself, 
Engrossed in my ambitions small, 

My greed for pelf. 

So, Father, kill my better part 

That I may be 
Devoid of feeling and of heart 

As those I see 
About me, callous to the woe 

That hems them in; 
Let me no care for others know. 

But lucre win. 

I knew a millionaire, and he 

Was praised of men; 
O'er petty, small, he seemed to me, 

And base, but then. 
He had his gold and people bowed, 

Or feared his lash. 
I'd have the plaudits of the crowd. 

So give me cash. 



TIVO PRAYERS. 5 1 



So runs the prayer. But 'tis not mine- 
Dear God, forbid! 

For I have felt Thy thought divine 
In me is hid; 

I know that o'er the petty throng 
There stands Thy Truth, 

The principle that combats wrong, 
Drea*" of my youth. 

It stands unmoved. Our little lives 

Wail out their song; 
Ill-seeming greed in fatness thrives, 

But not for long; 
For still Thy Truth moves changeless on 

Through time's long day, 
And still shall rule when stars grow wan — 

Show me Thy way. 



52 SAFE YOUR LETTERS. 



SAVE YOUR LETTERS. 

^EE here, you little fellows, whom I cannct 

*^ help but like, 

Why don't you save your letters, and so get 

yourselves a bike ? 
Or if you do not know the way, or think I talk 

in fun. 
If you'll listen for a moment, I will tell you how 

it's done: 



Spell " rubber " r-u-b-e-r, and there you save a 

" b," 
And that's a letter that you need, as any one can 

see. 
Then next spell " lief " just 1-e-f, and I've no 

doubt you'll like 
To notice that you now have saved b-i, one-half 

of bike. 



SA VE YOUR LETTERS. 53 

And then spell "stick" s-t-i-c; you've saved a 

" k," you see, 
And b-i-k is not so bad; it only lacks an " e;" 
And we know how to save an " e;" we'll take the 

small word " dike " 
And spell it simply d-i-k, and there! You hare 

your bike! 

So now, my little fellows, whom I could not fail 
to like. 

Start in to save your letters, and so get your- 
selves a bike. 

And, if your ingenuity is not exceeding small, 

I think, no doubt, you, too, can save some mar- 
bles and a ball. 



54 IT'S CHRISTMAS TIME. 



IT'S CHRISTMAS TIME. 

T T'S Christmas time; it's Christmas time. 
Let Christmas bells ring out their chime; 
Let Christmas fairies trip along, 
A merry, maddening, gladdening throng; 
Let Christmas blessings bring their bliss; 
Let Christmas angels stoop and kiss 
The world's gray heart to tuneful rhyme, 
For, oh, it's Christmas, Christmas time. 

It's Christmas time, both East and West. 
But there the earth is crystal dressed. 
While here its robes are bonnie green, 
With brooks as silver threads between. 
Cold winter there, bright winter here; 
For them the frost, for us the cheer; 
But East or West, to live's sublime 
In merry, merry Christmas time. 



IT'S CHRISTMAS TIME. 55 

In Christmas time, or far or near, 
There's just one creed: Be of good cheer. 
There's just one song that rings again: 
Peace, peace on earth; good will to men. 
On this one day let's care forget, 
The grief we know, the ill we met, 
And let the bells ring chime on chime, 
In Christmas time, the merry time. 



56 "HIS LIFE A failure: 



" HIS LIFE A FAILURE." 

T T E had no " business tact;" 'tis plain enough. 
•*- "^ He stored no gold while on his earthly 

way; 
111 clad was he, with garments worn and rough; 

Scarce knowing how he'd live from day to day. 
Improvident! His little all he gave 

To those who needed; poor, yet fed the poor, 
And still neglected for himself to save. 

Unhoused, unkempt, they voted him a boor — 
No tact had he! 

No wisdom, surely! Why, the vagrant dared 

To lift his voice 'gainst rulers of the State. 
Not e'en the church — God save us all! — he 
spared. 
But scourged alike earth's sainted and her 
great. 
To save a sinner, he, unwise, would say 

That you must touch him with a tender hand; 
Must touch the wretch of coarser, baser clay! 
Say, when was e'er a scheme so foolish 
planned? 

No wisdom his! 



'•HIS LIFE A FAILURE." 57 

Fanatic, too! He held a strange belief 
That man might reach to heights as yet but 
guessed; 
And, hoping much, he walked a path of grief 
That they who falter might the more be 
blessed. 
Aye, thus he dreamed; who doubts the dream 
was vain? 
And thus he lived; was e'er such folly known? 
Why, when he died, still scouting golden gain, 
His grave was bought by charity alone! 
So unwise, he! 

" His life a failure! " So I hear you say; 
And who can doubt who looks on earth's suc- 
cess, 
Where gilded folly proudly wears the bay 

And simpering millions haste some knave to 
bless? 
Fanatic! Yes, according to your rule. 
Foolish! No doubt, in average mankind's 
ken. 
A teacher with one lesson for his school; 
Impractical, with faith in love, but then — 
He was The Christ. 



58 'TIS THE SECRET OF YOUTH. 



'TIS THE SECRET OF YOUTH. 

1 IFE taught me her lesson; I hold it as truth 
■^^That a smile in the heart is the secret of 

youth ; 
For age cannot harm him, nor do him a wrong, 
Who whistles a bit as he journeys along. 
The face must be wrinkled, the hair must be 

gray, 
But the heart may be young till the end of the 

day, 
For ever and ever there standeth the truth: 
A smile in the heart is the secret of youth. 

What matter the wrinkles, except they shall 

frown? 
What matters the silver where once was the 

brown? 
For still we may smile though the morning is 

gone. 
And the light of that smile is the light of the 

dawn; 



'775 THE SECRET OF YOUTH. 59 

And still as we whistle dvill care to the wind, 
There's a way out of trouble forever we find; 
For the ages have told it; they whisper the truth 
That a smile in the heart is the secret of youth. 

The shoulders must stoop, but the spirit may 

stand 
Serene as the dawnlight that kisseth the land. 
Old age cannot touch them, the years they defy. 
Who smile as life's phantoms go scurrying by. 
A sigh is Care's agent to wrinkles enroll, 
And a frown is the curtain we drop o'er the soul; 
But the spirit still whispers 'mid sorrow and ruth 
That a smile in the heart is the secret of youth. 



6o JIM WAS PECUUAR. 

JIM WAS PECULIAR. 

JIM was peculiar. The folks all said 
They kind o' suspicioned he's queer in the 
head. 
He'd go moonin' along in an absentish way, 
An' lots o' the time he had nothin' to say. 
An' when he did talk there was no one could 

know 
The thing that he'd say, fer his thoughts seemed 

to go 
In a style o' their own, an' likely, maybe, 
He'd set folks to thinkin', which hurts us, you 
see. 

Jim was peculiar. I rickolleck now 

He of'en remarked that he couldn't see how 

A hull million dollars could do a man good. 

" Do you reckon," he'd say, " he can use it in 

food, 
Er drinkin', er housin', er wearin' of clothes? 
Well, then, what's the good of it, land only 

knows." 
An' then he'd go moonin' and moonin' away, 
An', " Jim is peculiar," the neighbors 'ud say. 



JIM WAS PECULIAR. 6 1 

Jim was peculiar. The children allowed 
There wasn't his ekal in all o' the crowd; 
An' you'd see 'em a-smilin' when he was around 
An' tellin' 'em stories frum flat on the ground, 
An' their laughter would sound like notes from 

the choir, 
When the angels is singin' an' callin' us higher; 
An' the folks, w'en they saw it and heered it, 

would say: 
" That Jim gits more queerer an' queerer each 

day." 

Jim was peculiar. The day when he lay 
At home on his bed while his life ebbed away 
He only remarked: " Well, so fer as I know 
I've made a few happy; I'm ready to go." 
An' the people all come to the funeral then, 
An' they mos'ly shed tears at the final amen; 
An' they carved on his monument merely this 

word: 
" Jim Jones was peculiar, an' so was his Lord." 



62 DEUCE TAKE PHILOSOPHY. 



DEUCE TAKE PHILOSOPHY! 

"T^ EUCE take philosophy! I know a way 
^^^ Better by far than philosophers know. 
Ho, all ye sages with heads turning gray, 

What in the end is the thing you can show? 
Is it some knowledge to tell of the how, 

With ne'er a perception of wherefore and why? 
What is the morrow? And what is the now? 

And what is the change that we label, to die? 

Deuce take philosophy! I know a spot 

Where all of the wisdom of dust-covered tome 
And its half-erudition availeth us not — 
'Tis the place where Love reigns in the king- 
dom of Home. 
And, oh, ye philosophers, there is a light, 
The light shining forth from the eyes that I 
love. 
Which maketh your wisdom to seem as the 
night, 
So high its revealment your knowledge above. 



DEUCE TAKE PHILOSOPHY. 63 

Deuce take philosophy! Hands that reach out 

To bless me, caress me, and lighten the pain 
That comes 'mid the shadows of care and of 
doubt 

To double my labor and deaden my brain, 
Yours is the wisdom the sages have missed; 

Yours is the substance, and theirs is the foam. 
So I turn from the books to the ones who have 
kissed 

My lips into smiles in the kingdom of Home. 



64 OUT IN THE MOUNTAINS. 



OUT IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

T WANT to be out in the mountains; I'm tired 

of staying here, 
With only the everlasting plain outstretching far 

or near; 
I am weary of the city and the pavement's cease- 
less glare, 
And I want to be out where God's about and 

His glory's everywhere; 
I want to lie down on the hillside and dream as 

'the white clouds pass, 
With no one to tell me I'd better move on, or 

warn me, " Keep oflf the grass;" 
I just want a chance to breathe an air that's 

never been boxed as yet; 
Oh, I'd like to be free as the brown quails be, 

with never a care to fret. 



OUT IN THE MOUNTAINS. 65 



I want to be out in the mountains where there's 

room for the soul to grow; 
Where the brooks just laugh in their freedom, 

and the hills in the evening glow. 
With a rod or a gun as poor excuse, I'd lazily lie 

and dream. 
And "Trouble," I'd say, "may go its way; it 

isn't a part of my scheme." 
And the trout might leap in the sunlight for all 

of my rod and me, 
And the quail might whistle, the deer might run; 

I'd leave them safe and free, 
For someway I think in the mountains dear life 

is too sweet to lose; 
It is only down here, where we worry and fear, 

that a creature to die might choose. 



66 OUT IN THE MOUNTAINS. 



I want to be out in the mountains where freedom 

is not a name; 
Where the soul is glad in its birthright, nor 

walks with the halt and lame; 
For peace is upon the summits, and liberty's in 

the vales, 
And the heart, oft sad, can only be glad in the 

shadow-haunted dales. 
With the birds trilling out in gladness, the flow- 
ers like thoughts of God, 
With the blue above and the green beneath, and 

the blossom-sprinkled sod; 
With rest, dear rest for the spirit through the 

peaceful, peaceful year, 
I want to be out in the mountains; I'm tired of 

staying here. 



MV LITTLE MOTHERS PRAYER. 67 



MY LITTLE MOTHER'S PRAYER. 



HE was just a little woman, not more than 



s 

•^ five feet tall, 



But she had a way of working that was bound 

to beat them all. 
She would work for me and sister, and her hands 

were never still; 
She just kept working, working, as I guess she 

always will. 
And all my aunts would say to her: " Now, 

Jiili.-i. don't you know 
You'll spoil them children sure as fate if you 

keep workin' so 
And don't let them do some of it." I s'pose my 

aunts were right. 
But still my sister wasn't spoiled, and p'r'aps I 

wasn't — quite. 



68 My LITTLE MOTHER'S PRAYER. 

I never see my mother now, but, wheresoe'er I 

be. 
I know that she is working yet and thinking still 

of me; 
And sometimes when she's thinking there's a 

film before her eye. 
And for me a prayer's ascending to the Father 

up on high. 
And, oh, I think I couldn't stray so very far 

from Him, 
While that sweet prayer's ascending and those 

dear eyes are dim; 
And sometimes as I wander I can almost see her 

there, 
With the dear hands working, working, and I 

seem to hear the prayer. 

I think the boys whose mothers work, and hope, 

and always pray, 
Though they may stumble oftentimes, won't 

wander quite away; 
And if they fall, and fall again, they'll rise again, 

for there. 
In every lowest depth of sin, they'll hear their 

mother's prayer. 



MY LITTLE MOTHER'S PR A YER. 69 



They'll hear it in the stillest night; 'twill follow 
them by day, 

And when they falter, " Rise again " 'twill ever, 
ever say. 

It reaches down the darkest years; it points to 
guerdons fair. 

Few hopeless fall who still recall a mother's lov- 
ing prayer. 

Oh, mother, little mother, God's hand has 

touched to gray 
The soft brown hair so smooth and fair that I 

recall to-day. 
Though the faithful hands still labor for the ones 

they love the best, 
As they will toil unto the end, until He giveth 

rest; 
Yet I think sometimes that they must fold, 

while comes the misty host 
Of visions of the girl and boy for whom they 

toiled the most; 
And I long that you shall feel and know, as you 

sit dreaming there. 
That your boy in love remembers every faithful 

deed and prayer. 



70 AS THE YEARS GO BY. 



AS THE YEARS GO BY. 

■rpOREVER and ever the suns go down; 

Forever and ever they rise again; 
And life is a maid with a golden crown 

And sandals of darkness beloved by men. 
We are dreaming to-day of a future of bliss; 

To-morrow we bury the hope with a sigh, 
With a long, long sigh and a farewell kiss — 

And that is the way that the years go by. 

'■ To-morrow," we say, " I will build me a home 

In the beautiful, beautiful land of rest." 
But the morrow comes and our feet yet roam. 

And our hearts are sad and our lives unblest, 
And the suns smile down on our falling tears, 

And the friends we love are the ones who die, 
And the phantom of pleasure is chased by fears — 

And that is the way that the years go by. 



AS THE YEARS GO BY. ^l 

Forever and ever we say at night: 

" Oh, woeful to-morrow, to bring me pain! " 
But the morrow comes, and the sun is bright, 
And the loss that we dreaded has turned to 
gain; 
And the flowers of joy in our souls still bloom, 
And the smile of the spirit has followed its 
sigh, 
And the daybeams of gladness have banished the 
gloom — 
And that is the way that the years go by. 

Forever and ever — oh, valley of life. 

Where joy is a phantom and woe is a shade ! 
Mocked by our visions no less than our strife, 

What is the game when the game is played ? 
Who is the Player whose pawns are we. 

Who sits in the mists as the moments fly? 
Who is the One that the end doth see, 

As the phantoms fade and the years go by ? 



72 MY DAUGHTER'S PRISLILLA. 



MY DAUGHTER'S PRISCILLA. 

TV /r Y daughter's Priscilla. I know not how 
•^*-*- She came to my life from the Puritan 

days. 
With the calm, true eyes and the tranquil brow 

And the voice as sweet as a hymn of praise; 
But if some picture from days of old 

Might step from its place in an oaken frame. 
Bearing no trace of the gray past's mold, 

I fancy that picture would look the same — 

The same as my daughter, whose calm, slow eyes 
Look to my own, while the love shines 
through. 
As a star ray pierces the evening skies 

Or a sunbeam cleaves through the dome of 
blue. 
In the touch of her hand all comfort dwells. 
And Peace through her dear lips makes her 
plea, 
For her voice is sweet as a chime of bells — 
My daughter Priscilla, who blesses me. 



My DAUGHTER'S PRISCILLA. 73 



My daughter's Priscilla. Ah me ! Ah me ! 

My heart is turbulent, wild and worn; 
But her tranquil eyes I need but see, 

And the cloak of unrest from my soul is torn. 
I know not how — I say it again — 

She came from the past with her eyes a-shine, 
But this I cry to my soul's amen : 

" I thank the Father that she is mine." 



74 AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA. 



AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA. 

1~A O you think you'd like to be at the bottom 
^^^^ of the sea, 

With the pollyhinkus swinging all around, 
And the gogglers with their eyes big as mama's 
custard pies, 
And the winkus that goes crawling on the 
ground, 

And the spry, 
(Oh, my eye !) 
The spry, spry, spry, 
The very, very, very, very spry springaree 

That slides through the glare of the water 
everywhere, 
On the shifting, lifting bottom of the deep blue 
sea ? 



AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA. 75 



At the bottom of the sea there is strangest mys- 
tery. 
For the queen of all the sprites is living there, 
With amber beads for eyes, and she lives on oys- 
ter fries. 
And she hates to hear the wicked sailors swear; 
And her hair, 
It is fair; 

It is fair, fair, fair; 
It is very, very, very, very, very bright and fair; 
And the fishes swim about through her palace 
in and out, 
Through the water that is shifting and is lifting 
everywhere. 



76 AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA. 



But I want to tell you, dear, and I hope that you 
will hear, 
That really it is better to be living on the 
ground, 
Where the things are not so queer, but the at- 
mosphere is clear, 
And in order to enjoy it 'tisn't needful to be 
drowned; 

For you know 
(It is so. 

And you should know, know) 
It is really, really chilly where the dim depths be; 
And it's surely very tough; yes, it certainly is 
rough, 
For you can't breathe a little in the deep blue 
sea. 



LITTLE IVHITE SISTER. 77 



LITTLE WHITE SISTER. 

/^A H, little white Sister, secluded out yonder, 
^^^ Saying your Aves from day unto day, 
What are your hopes and your visions, I wonder. 

What are your fancies of life and its way ? 
Know you the burdens, the cares and the losses 

Waiting the weary outside of your door ? 
Know you how heavy, how heavy the crosses ? 
Know you the hearts that are troubled and 
sore ? 

Little white Sister, 
Tell me, I pray. 
What do you dream 
As the years grow gray ? 



78 LITTLE WHITE SISTER. 



Oh. little white Sister, your heart has its fan- 
cies — 
I look in your eyes and I know it is so — 
They steal from your soul in the half-timid 
glances, 
Then steal again back, as a spirit might go. 
Your voice is so quiet, I wonder, I wonder 
If the charm of contentment you really have 
found. 
Does peace indeed dwell your white raiment un- 
der ? 
Does your spirit's horizon no mist of doubt 
bound ? 

Little white Sister, 
Tell me, I pray, 
Does peace in your breast 
Dwell ever and ave ? 



LITTLE WHITE SISTER. 79 



Oh, little white Sister, out here in the battle 
The smoke of the struggle envelops us all; 
We lose His low voice in the musketry's rattle, 
And the mad dream of glory still holds us in 
thrall; 
And we drag on our chains, or iron or golden, 

And we cry at the last that this life is a lie; 
And we turn dreamy eyes to the days that are 
olden — 
Do the years with you. Sister, glide peacefully 
by ? 

Little white Sister, 
Tell me, I pray. 
Is your soul at peace, 
Removed from the frj y ? 



8o LITTLE WHITE SISTER. 



Oh, little white Sister, in gentle petitions 
I pray you remember one soul of unrest; 
Shorn of his happiness, mocked by ambitions. 
Cross little white hands for him over your 
breast; 
For he has forgotten — the battle's so dreary! — 
The words that he learned at a dear mother's 
knee, 
And his heart it is dumb — for life is a-weary! 
Little white Sister, reach upward, for me. 
Little white Sister, 
Peace unto thee; 
In gentle petitions 
Remember thou me. 



THE SCHOOLGIRL THA T J HA TED. 8l 



THE SCHOOLGIRL THAT I HATED. 

OMETIMES when memory draws the veil 
*^ and I look back a way 

To where the sun was shining in my happy, 
youthful day 

1 catch the scent of lilacs as they blossomed by 

our door. 
And I hear the robins chirping as they used to 

chirp of yore, 
And the oriole is flitting like a ball of living fire, 
And the river's sort o' whispering just as though 

'twould never tire; 
And then, amid the faces that on memory's 

screen I see, 
Comes the schoolgirl that I hated when she sat 

in front of me. 



82 THE SCHOOLGIRL THA T I HA TED. 



Someway I see her plainly now in scanty dress of 

blue, 
With eyes in part coquettish and in part serene 

and true; 
With curls that liked to catch the light and twist 

it in and out, 
And lips just right for kissing, if they were in- 
clined to pout. 
I knew that she was pretty, but I said she was no 

good — 
Though I couldn't help admiring her; no boy 

that's human could — 
But she made up faces at me, and she could a 

vixen be. 
The schoolgirl that I hated when she sat in front 

of me. 



THE SCHOOLGIRL THA T I HA TED. 83 



She wouldn't play at marbles, and she couldn't 

play at ball, 
And I often intimated that she was no good at 

all. 
I dropped a cricket down her back in cheerful, 

boyish way. 
And she yelled first; then I yelled next, when 

teacher was to pay. 
She wouldn't " coon " a melon, though I asked 

her oftentimes. 
And she ridiculed my first attempts at poor and 

broken rhymes. 
Oh, she was a thorough failure, as any boy can 

see, 
The schoolgirl that I hated when she sat in front 

of me. 



84 THE SCHOOLGIRL THA T I HA TED. 



She beat me at the lessons that we found within 

our books, 
And when she went above me all scornful were 

her looks; 
But when the teacher whipped me I saw her cry 

one day, 
And I said that " girls is better than what some 

fellers say; " 
And I sort of half forgave her for her lack of 

hardihood, 
Though I even then insisted that she really was 

no good; 
But times have changed since then, for I — I'm 

married, don't you see, 
To the schoolgirl that I hated when she sat in 

front of me. 



IF DREAMS WERE GOLD. 8S 



IF DREAMS WERE GOLD. 

T F dreams were gold Fd build for you, 
^ My love, my own, a palace fair 
As Babylonian monarchs knew, 

And you should dwell right regnant there. 
For, oh, my love, Fve wealth of dreams; 

They press upon my waking brain. 
Half glad, half sad that pressure seems, 

Like the strange joy akin to pain. 

If dreams were gold, dear heart, dear heart, 

The realm of beauty were your own, 
And skilled designers of the mart 

Should weave and build for you alone. 
For, oh, these dreams whose glories shine 

Within my heart, within my soul, 
Their joy, alas, is only mine; 

And I would give to you the whole. 



86 IF DREAMS WERE GOLD. 

If dreams were gold — Oh, love of mine, 

Full well I know, who sit and dream, 
That gold ne'er bought one bliss divine; 

No heaven answers to its gleam. 
Then since I dream — I know not why — 

And since the dreams are mine alone. 
Let all the lack of part supply. 

And take the dreamer for your own. 

Take the poor dreamer, and his dreams 

Shall bathe you in their mellow light. 
As in some vale the moonlight gleams 

About the rose asleep at night; 
And we shall richer be, I trow. 

Ay, richer by a wealth untold. 
Than any riches we might know 

If dreams were gold, if dreams were gold. 



IVHEN THE STARS SLEEP. 8? 



WHEN THE STARS SLEEP. 

^17 HEN the little stars sleep, they rest, we 
' * know, 

On the cloudland's misty pillows, 
Till the sun creeps over the western world 

And is drowned in the ocean billows; 
Then straightway they peep from their chamber 
out, 

A watch on the gray earth keeping, 
But the world rolls on, with its toil and doubt, 

And it cares not a whit for their peeping. 

The world rolls on, and its children sing 

A song to the rhythm of pleasure, 
Till the Player strikes a minor string 

And slower, and slow, is the measure. 
Passion and Happiness, Joy and Shame, 

Join hands while the world is dreaming— 
Still the stars look down from their heights of 
flame, 

God's peace o'er the tumult beaming. 



S8 IV HEN THE STARS SLEEP. 

Then the sun comes up o'er the eastern land, 

And the stars creep back in wonder, 
Till he tucks them away with his great white 
hand, 

The sky's blue coverlet under; 
But all of the day they wait and wait, 

And all of its moments they measure, 
Till they look again on that strange, mad dance — 

The dance to the rhythm of pleasure. 



IN THE CITY, THE CITY. 89 



IN THE CITY, THE CITY. 

IN the city, the city, the fog creeps in 
To hide with its curtain the phantom of sin, 
And the fever of hurry has seized on all, 
The rich and the poor, and it holds them in 

thrall ; 
And they race with Time till the race is run. 
And the grave is the goal that the effort won. 
And they push and jostle and scheme and plot 
In the city, the city, where God is not. 

In the city, the city, I note the care 
That gnaws at a life till the life is bare; 
And the children who skulk in the alleys, all 
Are old from their birth and pinched and small. 
There are women who live in a self-made hell, 
And their hearts beat on like a funeral knell; 
And lives like the nightshade blossom and rot 
In the city, the city, where God is not. 



90 JN THE CITY, THE CITY. 

In the city, the city, I long to rest 

Where the hills stoop down to the crimson west, 

Where the brooks leap down from the summer's 
snow 

And the poppied fields are with flame aglow, 

Where the squirrels hide and the brown quail 
nest 

And God sets a seal on the soul's unrest. 

To the hills and the mountains, each peace- 
breeding spot, 

I turn from the city, where God is not. 



CITY AND COUNTRY IVA YS. 9I 



CITY AND COUNTRY WAYS. 



GUESS that I can never git much used to 



city ways. 



Someway in dodging through the streets I feel 

I'm in a maze, 
And when some driver runs me down, or almost 

does, before 
I know he's anywhere around, I jump a rod or 

more 
An' give a yell, the while he laughs and says, 

" You fool, git out! " 
I wish that I was back again and jus' a loafin' 

'bout 
An' knowin' all my neighbors' biz an' tendin' to 

it, too. 
The way that country people can an' almost 

always do. 



92 CITY AND COUNTRY WAYS. 



When these here waggins that they run without 

no horses on 
Comes sHdin' up to where I am an' scare me till 

I'm wan, 
I always wish that I could be back where the 

country lies 
Jus' sort o' reachin' out to God and smilin' to 

His skies. 
I want to go back there again an' liear the peo- 
ple say: 
" Waal, how's your inflooenzy now, and how's 

the kid to-day? " 
Fer city folks don't know my biz an' sort o' run 

it, too. 
The way that country people can an' almost 
always do. 



CITY AND COUNTRY WAYS. 93 



Of course I know the city folks has theatres an' 

all, 
But when the baby's middlin' sick they hardly 

ever call; 
They don't drop in an' say, " B'gee! D'you hear 

that Bilkins' twins 
Has took the measles? — Punishment, I s'pose, 

fer father's sins." 
An' when my rheumatiz comes on an' breaks my 

needed rest 
There's not a wave of trouble rolls across their 

peaceful breast. 
An' so I say I want to go where folks my biz'U 

run, 
The way the country folks I know have almost 

always done. 



94 THE OLDEN DA YS, THE GOLDEN DA YS. 



THE OLDEN DAYS, THE GOLDEN DAYS. 

' I " HE olden days, the golden days, the days 

■*■ when we were young, 

When life was all a hymn of praise and we the 

ones who sung; 
The laughter of that elder time comes ringing 

back to me, 
The echo of a silvery chime from o'er a widening 

sea; 
And still I hear both sweet and clear the voices 

hushed and low, 
Like whispers from another sphere, of friends of 

long ago. 
Like some gray ghost my spirit strays the 

ghosts of dawn among 
And sighs to praise the olden days, the days 

when we were young. 



THE OLDEN DA YS, THE GOLDEN DA YS. 95 



The olden days, the golden days — oh, boyhood's 

heart of fire. 
Is this the ending of the ways? For this didst 

thou aspire? 
A dream that ended in a dream? A hope now 

lying dead? 
A little time to toil and scheme with naught but 

gloom o'erhead? 
Is this the answer life must give unto its promise 

fair? 
Hopes, idle hopes, that may not live, and faith 

that fights despair? 
A dream that never pain allays? A halting, lisp- 
ing tongue? 
Oh, better far the olden days, the days when we 

were young. 



96 THE OLDEN DA YS, THE GOLDEN DA YS. 



The olden days, the golden days when care was 

all unknown, 
Still back to them my memory strays and there 

it dwells alone, 
Alone and lonely, yet 'tis blessed, for so they 

cheer me yet, 
The ones who wandered or do rest unheeding 

care and fret. 
Far fields of clover all abloom, low hills my boy- 
hood knew, 
From the dim present and its gloom, I turn, I 

turn to you; 
From the drear maze of weary days with clouds 

of doubt o'erhung, 
I turn to days, the golden days, the days when 

we were young. 



TO THE PIONEERS THAT REMAIN 97 



TO THE PIONEERS THAT REMAIN. 

T HAVE no word to speak their praise. 
Theirs was the deed; the guerdon ours. 
The wilderness and weary days 

Were theirs alone; for us the flowers. 
They sowed the seed that we might reap; 

Ours is the fruitage of their years. 
And now, behold, they drop to sleep, 

And we have naught for them save tears. 

The flag, whose luster none may mar. 

The brightest thing that loves the air, 
See you our California's star 

Amidst the rest? They set it there. 
What wonder that it droops to-day, 

The while another folds his hands, 
And, silent, floats away, away, 

From golden sands to golden sands. 



98 TO THE PIONEERS THAT REMAIN. 

So they go out. A little while, 

And none shall answer to the call. 
Still shall the great world weep or smile, 

But they shall be all silent — all. 
Still shall the life-tides ebb and flow 

And mark the rhythm of the years, 
But they no more shall heed or know, 

Forgotten cares and hopes and fears. 

When they are gone; when o'er one's clay 

Our tears of long farewell shall fall. 
We'll pay our tribute then, and say: 

" He was the last, the last of all. 
Ah, they were stalwart men," we'll sigh, 

" The future's promise on each brow." 
So shall we whisper then, but I — 

I pay that tribute here and now. 



A LITTLE, LITTLE FELLOW. 99 



T 



A LITTLE, LITTLE FELLOW. 

HERE'S a little, little fellow, and he's really 
very small, 
For he measures by my table and he isn't quite 

so tall; 
And this little, little fellow in the evening seeks 

my knees. 
And he says: " Now won't oo tell me jus' the 

nicest 'tories, p'ease? " 
And then I tell him stories that I wouldn't dare 

to say 
Are of the usual run of things we meet on every 

day; 
And the last thing that he asks me is, with story- 
telling through, 
" Now do you 'pose when I'm growed up I'll 

know as much as you? " 



lOO A LITTLE, LITTLE FELLOW. 



Oh, little, little fellow, who sit upon my knee, 

I know how all misplaced is this, the faith you 
rest in me. 

My wisdom is a fiction, and my stock of knowl- 
edge small; 

Like you, I guess the Father knows, and He is 
over all. 

I stumble on the journey and I falter as I go. 

And where the days shall lead me I never, never 
know. 

But, though I'm all unworthy of your faith, it 
cheers me, too. 

With " Do you 'pose when I'm growed up I'll 
know as much as you? " 



A UTTLE, LITTLE FELLOW. 



Oh, little, little fellow, I really hope you will. 

I want to feel when I leave off you'll be advanc- 
ing still; 

And if sometimes I half have seen a light beyond 
the mist, 

I trust that by its purest rays your pathway may 
be kissed. 

But whatsoe'er the years may bring, and what- 
soe'er their lore. 

Someway I'm hoping here to-night, as I have 
hoped before, 

That you may keep some part, at least, of faith 
in me you knew 

When oft you asked if " when I'm growed I'll 
know as much as you." 



WHO KNEW THIS MAN? 



WHO KNEW THIS MAN ? 

/~^ OD touched his eyes, and then, no doubt, 
^-^ he saw 

What other men may only vaguely guess; 
Behind dumb sorrow saw the loving Law, 

And knew His wisdom sendeth pain to bless. 
He saw (though dimly) that behind the deed 

There stands the Doer waiting the event; 
So o'er the rocks where human feet must bleed 
He walked, though bruised, with calm and full 
content — 

God touched his eyes. 

God touched his heart, and, lo, he felt the pain 
Of those dread sorrows borne by human kind; 
To help another counted surest gain. 

And lost himself that he might others find. 
Oh, ne'er a hand outreached to him in vain, 
For " I must love them " was his tender 
thought; 
He wiped the eyes bewet with trouble's rain. 
Till glorious manhood for himself he 
wrought — 

God touched his heart. 



IVHO KNEW THIS MAN? I03 

God touched his soul. The clink of yellow gold 

He counted nothing save to better men; 
For selfish ends the stuff he could not hold, 

But saw dread want and let it go again. 
Alone he walked, yet blessed by all he knew; 

Alone he lived, but hundreds loved his name; 
Into the lives of careworn men he grew, 

And saw and felt dull sorrow's strenuous 
claim — 

God touched his soul. 

God touched his life. One night they found him 
there, 
With smile of welcome for the angel gray; 
But Death himself could only make him fair, 

And peace was with him, as he, dreaming, lay. 
And then they came, glad youth and somber age. 

And stood beside that humble, lowly bed. 
And tears fell fast that nothing might assuage, 
And, " Much I loved him;" it was all they 
said — 

God touched his life. 



I04 THE BOYS OF THE COUNTRY PRESS. 



THE BOYS OF THE COUNTRY PRESS. 

" I ^HE boys, the boys of the country press 
■*■ Who strive and toil while their " pile " 
grows less. 
Who take in potatoes and wood and hay 
And corn and mutton and beans for pay. 
Who write heavy leaders, and set them, too; 
Who say, " Well, I guess that these beans will 

do 
When the flour gives out," nor whistle the less — 
I sing to the boys of the country press. 

I sing to the boys — God bless them all! 
Who sit in their sanctums drear and small. 
While the partisan tells them why times are bad, 
And the merchant drops in to stop his " ad," 
And the parson explains theological things. 
And the granger remarks, as his trophy he 

brings: 
" Naow this here pertater's the socker, I 

guess " — 
I sing to the boys of the country press. 



THE BOYS OF THE COUNTRY PRESS. I05 

I sing to the boys in a humble place 
Who turn to the days a resolute face, 
Who feel that each duty has something to bless, 
Though they bow to the sweep of the old hand- 
press; 
The boys who toil on till their toiling is done, 
As editor, foreman and typo in one, 
With people who curse them, and others to 

bless — 
I sing to the boys of the country press. 

I sing to the boys — may a blessing fall 

On the toilers who sit in the sanctums small! 

And if patient endeavor is worthy its prize, 

If the low path of duty leads on to the skies, 

If there's never an eflfort, how lowly soe'er. 

But its certain fruition draws steadily near. 

Why, then, when the shadows have folded, I 

guess 
The One who is leading and guiding to bless 
His subscription will pay to the country press. 



Io6 WE SHALL REST SWEETLY. 



WE SHALL REST SWEETLY. 

T ^7 E shall lie down to the infinite rest, 

E'en as the millions before us. 
Sweetly we'll sleep on the great Mother's breast, 

The calm, tender Mother that bore us. 
Passion of loving and tumult of strife, 

They shall be buried forever; 
With white hands enfolded we'll look back to life 

And smile at its weary endeavor. 

We shall rest sweetly — oh, wonderful rest! — 
As a babe lies asleep on its dear mother's breast; 
Trials forgotten and errors confessed. 
We shall rest sweetly, so sweetly. 



IVE SHALL REST SIVEETLY. I07 

Haply through eyelids down drooping shall steal 

A vision One sendeth to cheer us, 
White homes of peace that the earth-mists con- 
ceal, 

Loved ones and vanished ones near us. 
Haply from out of the little, low room 

A stairway and star-way shall lead us 
To the country of light from the valley of gloom, 

Where angels shall guide us and heed us. 

We shall rest sweetly down under the sod, 
Knowing the stairway that leads up to God, 
The crystal white star-way by angel-feet trod — 
We shall rest sweetly, so sweetly. 



Io8 / JUDGED HE WAS RIGHT. 



I JUDGED HE WAS RIGHT. 

■p? F the crops was good Brother Ephrum 
•*-^ would say, 

" Well, I jedge that the price'll be low, anyway;" 
An' if prices was good he'd say, " Well, I fear 
They're goin' to be down in the suller nex' 

year;" 
Ef ever'thing went jest es smooth es could be, 
He'd look to the futur', an' trouble he'd see, 
An' he'd say: "Well, per'aps it's all right, but, 

I jing! 
I'm mightily skeered what nex' season'll bring." 
That's the way that he talked. 

Ef the weather was windy he said that he knowed 
The buds frum the dern apple trees would be 

blowed; 
Ef a fortnight went by with no signs of a rain 
He said that a drowth was a-comin' again; 



/ JUDGED HE WAS RIGHT. I09 

An' he said that the wheat would be half of a 

crop, 
Fer the bugs was jus' certain to eat it all up; 
An' his fav'rite expression was allers: " I jing! 
I'm mightily skeered what nex' season'll bring." 
It was allers that way. 

One day Brother Ephrum was passin' away, 
An' the fambily gathered to hear what he'd say. 
But he didn't say much, jest heavin' some sighs, 
Wile the mists was a-gatherin' in front of his 

eyes. 
But at last a low whisper the fambily heard, 
An' o' course they stooped down so's to catch 

every word; 
But all that he uttered was only: " I jing! 
I'm mightily skeered what nex' season'll bring." 
An' I jedged he was right. 



A SONG FOR THE LITTLE CHAPS. 



A SONG FOR THE LITTLE CHAPS. 

T T ERE is a song for the little chaps, 

•*• ■*■ The little, wee fellows who don't know 

why 
The round world turns; and I guess, perhaps, 

That neither do you and neither do L 
Here is a song for the comical mites, 

Round and rosy and fat and sleek, 
Who gaze in amaze on the world's queer sights; 

And here is the blessing I cannot speak. 

Here is a song for the ones that gaze 

In queer consternation on finger and toe. 
And note they are moving in speechless amaze, 

And wonder who wound them and made the 
things go. 
The dear little fellows who deem mother's breast 

Is all of the world, and a good world, too, 
I am singing to them, while they lie at rest; 

And really what better is there to do? 



A SONG FOR THE LITTLE CHAPS. Ill 

Here is a song for the babes that stand 

Nearer to God than the grown folk do; 
Fresh little buds from the Heaven-land 

Who deem that the world is fresh and new. 
Bundles of helplessness, dearer than all 

Yet born of the morning and kissed by its 
dew; 
Feeble and wondering, blinking and small, 

Babes whom I love, I am singing to you. 



iVE WEARY OF IT ALL. 



WE WEARY OF IT ALL. 

"1 Tl 7 HO does not weary of it all, 

Of hope so high, fulfillment bare; 
The petty strife, the petty care. 
And doubt which holds the soul in thrall? 

Of little jealousies we feed. 
Of that incessant, spiteful cry, 
" I fear that he is more than I," 

When both of us are small indeed? 

Our hands fall down like leaden things, 
But soon we lift them with a frown 
And strive to tear our brother down 

From that low height whereto he clings. 

And " This," we say, " this ceaseless strife. 
Which bids us when one falls rejoice," — 
But, oh, the "vailing in the voice! — 

" This constant warfare, this is life." 



tVE IVEARV OF IT ALL. II3 

And so we build for some poor prize 
Our foolish structure on the sand 
Until it crumbles 'neath our hand, 

And, " God," we cry, " our dreams are lies." 

And if one holds a clearer thought, 
A faith, a hope no red earth bribes, 
" Oho," we cry, with mocking gibes, 

" He is a dreamer and distraught. 

" He is a savior. Crucify ! " — 
Oh, mad, mad world, thy Calvary 
Still bears its bitter fruit for thee. 

And still to love is but to die. 

Oh, God, we weary of it all, 

Of this incessant, cruel strife; 

Of grief, of hatred, aye, of life; 
We weary, and we wait Thy call. 



114 A LULLABY. 



A LULLABY. 

Q* LEEP, my little one, where you float 

^—■^ On the Dreamland Sea in the Dreamland 

Boat; 
But where is that sea and whither you go, 
Ah, who is so wise that he ever may know? 
There the sails of the voyager onward are fanned 
By the lullaby breezes from Hushabyland, 
And the boat is a cradle that swings to and fro, 
But whither it bears you, ah, none of us know. 

Sleep, my little one. None may know 
Whither the Dreamboat saileth. 

But One heedeth ever wherever you go, 
And His is a love never faileth. 



A LULLABY. II5 



Sleep, my little one, sleep and dream 
As you float, float away on the wonderful stream 
That leads to the land where the white angels be. 
Which I, in my blindness, no longer may see. 
There the Angel of Love and the Angel of Rest 
Shall cuddle my bairnie so close to the breast 
That only the thought of the mother and me 
Could bring you safe home again over the sea. 

Sleep, my little one, sleep and smile, 
Floating, ah, none may know whither; 

You shall sail back again after a while. 
Guided by angel hands hither. 



Il6 IT IS WELL TO REMEMER 

IT IS WELL TO REMEMBER. 

TT is well to remember this thing, you know: 
Though the rains may descend and the winds 
may blow; 
Though the skies may be dark as the hour of 

fate, 
And our latter be worse than our former state, 
Yet over the clouds there is always the sun, 
And the stars will appear when the tempest is 
done; 
And the soul needs its woe — 
'Neath the rain, flowers grow — 
It is well to remeniber this thing, you know. 

It is well to remember this thing, you know: 
The stalwart may stand 'neath the cruelest blow. 
For the soul, tempest driven, must turn to its 

God, 
As the rain-beaten flowers look up from the sod; 
And the fragrance of love is the price of our 

pain. 
As the blossoms grow sweet 'neath the blows of 

the rain. 

Heigh-ho and heigh-ho ! 
We weep, but we grow, 
And it's well to remember this thing, you know. 



WAITING FOR SANTA GLAUS. 1 1? 



T 



WAITING FOR SANTA CLAUS. 

HEY say he's but a pretty myth, the Santa 
Claus I knew 
When I was but a Httle chap, with little notions, 

too; 
They say he doesn't go about with reindeers and 

a sleigh, 
And lots and lots of toys and things he xneans to 

give away. 
But let them say whate'er they please, I not the 

less must feel 
That few indeed are things of life so very, very 

real 
As was the joy of girl and boy — say not it lacked 

a cause — 
When mother tucked us in our bed to wait for 

Santa Claus. 



Il8 WAITING FOR SANTA CLAUS. 



" Now go to sleep," our mother said — ah, still 

the words I hear, — 
But how on earth could children sleep when 

Santa Claus was near? 
And so we whispered for a time and rolled and 

tumbled some. 
And felt assured that Christmas morn would 

never, never come, 
Until at length the elves of sleep tied down our 

lashes fast. 
And gently we sailed o'er the sea — the dream- 
land sea — at last; 
And in the morning ere the sun first peeped our 

windows through — 
Don't tell me Santa didn't come; I guess we 

children knew. 



WAITING FOR SANTA CLAUS. II9 



Don't tell me Santa didn't come — O, dreamland 

girl and boy, 
It was no fiction that you knew a joy surpassing 

joy. 
White-robed, I hear you patter still across the 

bedroom floor 
To delve within the stockings' depths for toys, 

and yet for more. 
If this be fiction I recall, then by my sager years 
I vow that they are phantoms all — cur hopes, 

and e'en our fears. 
And I am wishing here to-night, despite cold 

wisdom's laws, 
That mother now might tuck us in to wait for 

Santa Claus. 



AS I WOULD BELIEVE. 



AS I WOULD BELIEVE. 

T WANT to keep thinking that God's as true, 

And the grass as green and the skies as blue, 
As they used to be when my life was young 
And the bird of the morn to my spirit sung. 
I want to look out through my time-dimmed 

eyes 
To the ships of mist in the sea of skies, 
And feel that the hand that guides them there 
Will still for my faltering footsteps care. 

For someway I think as the years grow old 
And our heads turn gray that our hearts grow 

cold; 
And I'd like to keep the old-time trust, 
Lest my soul shall turn to ashes and dust; 
I would like to hold my faith in man, 
Nor his life's emotion with coldness scan; 
I fain would believe, as I used to do, 
When my life was young and its skies were blue. 



AS I WOULD BELIEVE. 



For I'd sooner have faith in one heart's truth, 
As I did in the days of my golden youth, 
Than, knowing the world, lose faith and sigh: 
" Ah, hope's a delusion and life is a lie! " 
I would sooner believe, though it prove me a 

fool, 
That the Teacher is heeding our lessons in 

school 
Than moan to the night: " It all is vain, 
And the object of pain is only — pain." 

So I'll cling to the trust that I'm battling here — 
Though it be with a sigh or a falling tear — 
For an end that is hidden the mist behind; 
And I'll dream that His purpose is always kind. 
Let it prove me a fool, if you will. I say 
That I'd sooner press on in such simple way 
Than, knowing o'er much (which Is nothing), 

sigh : 
" Alas! I have lived, but my life was a lie." 



AS T LIE HERE AND DREAM. 



AS I LIE HERE AND DREAM. 

A S I lie here and dream I hear 
■^^■A mead'lark whistHng sweet and clear, 
And straightly then his mate replies 
From yonder where the willow lies. 
" Oh, life is sweet," he sings alway; 
" And love is life," she hastes to say. 
And then they sing together so 
That angels listen where they go — 
As I lie here and dream. 

As I lie here the river flows. 
And whispers to me as it goes. 
And just one word it seems to say, 
Just "Peace" and "Peace" and "Peace" alway. 
And soon the world grows hushed and still; 
Down drops the sun behind its hill, 
And, " Soul, be silent," low I say, 
" For now is Nature going to pray " — 
As I lie here and dream. 



AS J LIE BE RE AND DREAM. 1 23 

As I lie here the stars creep out 
And wink their eyes and look about. 
A katydid chirps out its cheer, 
And then there sound, or far or near, 
The tiny voices of the night. 
And all the world is hushed and white; 
And straight are banished care and doubt — 
They are so small when God's about — 
As I lie here and dream. 



124 A SONG FOR THE UNDER DOG. 



A SONG FOR THE UNDER DOG. 

XT OW here is a song for the under dog, the 

weak under dog in the fight, 
For though he is down, and he's terribly down, 

mayhap he's the dog that is right. 
It isn't the cur who is largest, you know, whose 

morals are always the best. 
And a sanctified pup with a halo, I trow, might 

succumb in a physical test. 
If might could make right — but it cannot, you 

see, and I think you'll admit it were quaint 
If a blacksmith must always the best of men be, 

and a bruiser must pose as a saint. 
The man who succeeds may succeed as a knave, 

and in morals fly fearfully light, 
And that's why your sympathy kindly I crave for 

the weak under dog in the fight. 



A SO.\G FOR THE UNDER DOG. I25 



The martyrs who died for the cause that they 

deemed was surely the cause of their God, 
From whose wounds, gaping widely, the life- 
blood has streamed till it reddened the 

blossoming sod; 
The martyrs who gave — it was all they could 

do — their lives for the truth and the right, 
What were they, bethink you with sorrow and 

rue, but man's under dogs in the fight? 
Perhaps in the far-away end — but who knows? 

and your guess is no better than mine, 
For we preface our knowledge always with 

" suppose " as the great verb " to live " we 

decline. 
So, putting all guesses straightway to the rear, it 

seemeth most certainly right 
To take ofif our hats and to heartily cheer for the 

weak under dog in the fight. 



126 A SONG FOR THE UNDER DOG. 



So here is my cheer for the poor under dog. He 

is not the strongest, but then, 
It may hap that he's better by far than the dog 

that chews him again and again. 
His stock may be finer, his loyalty proved, and I 

think you will hardly demur 
When I say that quite often the dog on the top 

is the scurviest kind of a cur. 
And as the rule runs in the big canine world, so 

it runs with us humans, I know; 
Too often some cur of a man is on top, with a 

really good fellow below, 
And that's why I'm singing as best I know how 

this lame little anthem to-night 
To the poor, hungry devil who's clear out of 

luck — the weak under dog in the fight. 



IVHA7 IS THE DREAM IN MY BABVS EYES* 127 



WHAT IS THE DREAM IN MY BABY'S 
EYES? 

WHAT is the dream in the baby's eyes, 
As she lies and blinks in mute surprise? 
With little, wee hands that aimlessly go 
Hither and thither and to and fro; 
With little, wee feet that shall lead her— God 

knows, 
But a prayer from my heart like a benison goes; 
Bundle of helplessness, yonder she lies — 
What is the dream in my baby's eyes ? 

What does she wonder, and what does she know 
That we have forgotten so long, long ago? 
Bathed in the dawnlight, what does she see 
That slow years have hidden from you and f^om 

me? 
Out of the yesterdays, seeth she yet 
The things that in living she soon shall forget, 
All that is hidden beyond the blue skies? 
What is the dream in my baby's eyes? 



I2S IFHA T IS THE DREAM IN MY BABY'S EVES? 

Speak to me, little one, ere you forget: 
What is the thought that is lingering yet? 
Where is the land where the yesterdays meet. 
Waiting and waiting the morrows to greet? 
You wee, funny bundle, who only will blink, 
What do you wonder, and what do you think? 
Blue as the moonlight asleep in the skies. 
What is the dream in my baby's eyes? 



IfY GRANDSIRE'S "LET US PRA V." lag 

MY GRANDSIRE'S " LET US PRAY." 

"11 7 HEN the morning meal was ended, my 
grandsire used to say: 

" Let us ask our Heavenly Father now to help 
us through the day."' 

Then he took the well-worn Bible from the little 
corner stand, 

And read about the glories of the happy, prom- 
ised land. 

There was just a little quaver in his voice when- 
e'er he read 

How the One who loved the people had not 
where to lay His head, 

But he told in tone triumphant how the stead- 
fast win the fray; 

Then closed the book with reverence, softly say- 
ing: " Let us pray." 

Our Heavenly Father, in Thy hands 

Our lives are placed for keeping. 
Guard us in mercy through the day; 

Watch over us while sleeping; 
And, if we sin, in love forgive; 

Thou knowest all our blindness. 
In darkness groping, still we trust 

Ourselves unto- Thy kindness. 



I30 My GRANDSIRE'S "LET US PRA K" 

It was a little homely prayer, old fashioned if 

you will, 
But in my heart it's echoing yet and never will 

be still. 
Its only eloquence or charm was on my grand- 
sire's face, 
Yet I'm certain that it mounted to the Father's 

throne of grace; 
And I think the angels listened just to hear the 

reverent tone 
In which that gray-haired Christian made his 

wants and sorrows known; 
And though my feet have wandered oft from 

duty's narrow way 
Somehow I feel I'm better for my grandsire's 

" Let us pray." 

Oh, teach us. Father, that Thy way 

Is always one of beauty, 
And guide us lest our feet shall stray 

From out the path of duty. 
Life's hill is rugged. Father; lead, 

Oh, lead us safely on; 
Fit thou Thy mercy to our need, 

Till robes of light we don. 



MV GRANDSIRE'S "LET US PRAV:' I3I 

The prayer was long. I still recall how I would 

squirm and wriggle, 
And at my sister faces make till she perforce 

must giggle; 
Yet, through the recklessness of youth, some 

words of human pleading 
Would touch the boy and make him think of 

paths to Heaven leading. 
The kindness on that dear old face was written 

like a blessing; 
The love and peace that lingered there are past 

my poor expressing, 
But I know that I am better for the words he 

used to say 
When he closed the Bible gently, saying softly, 

" Let us pray." 

Oh, Thou, who blessed the children here 

And held them in Thy keeping. 
Bless Thou these two to us so dear, 

Thy mercies on them heaping. 
Through weary ways their feet must go; 

Temptation will assail them, 
But Thou wilt loving kindness show 

And never, never fail them. 



132 MY GRANDSIRE'S '-LET US PRA >'." 

'Tis many years since he went home, by God's 

own angels greeted — 
I know in Heaven's foremost row the rare old 

man is seated. 
No more I hear his loving words, no more his 

kindly greeting. 
But if I live one-half as well there'll be another 

meeting. 
My feet have wandered oftentimes; I caused him 

care and worry; 
I'd like to take his hand in mine and tell him " I 

am sorry; " 
And there's one thing I hope he knows up in the 

land of day: 
I've always been the better for his gentle " Let 

us pray." 



WHEN WHEAT IS WORTH A DOLLAR. 133 



WHEN WHEAT IS WORTH A DOLLAR. 

WJ HEN wheat is worth a dollar, with a ten- 
* ' dency to rise, 

On the horny-handed granger there are scarcely 

any flies; 
And he often stops to chuckle 'mid the labors of 

the day, 
And to ask the passing stranger, " Have you 

read the markets? Hay! " 
And his smile's a combination of a chasm and a 

hole 
And there's not a wave of trouble stirs his opti- 
mistic soul, 
As he says: "They call us hayseeds, but I 

reckon we're no guys. 
When wheat is worth a dollar, with a tendency 

to rise." 



134 WHEN WHEAT IS WORTH A DOLLAR. 



When wheat is worth a dollar — I wish that I 

could stand 
Among the honest grangers, with a pitchfork in 

my hand; 
With a pitchfork for an emblem, and a granary 

full of wheat, 
And a cinch upon that mortgage that would 

seem amazing sweet. 
I would not be a banker, nor with the bankers 

stand, 
But I yearn to be a granger of the horny-handed 

brand; 
Then my hayseed jubilate would uplift the 

vaulted skies — 
When wheat is worth a dollar, with a tendency 

to rise. 



WHEN WHEAT IS WORTH A DOLLAR. 135 



When wheat is worth a dollar and still is going 

up; 
When the farmer drinks the nectar Nature pours 

into his cup; 
When his smile is broad and beaming, and his 

laugh is like a roar 
As he sees the golden gleaming of the wheat he 

has in store, 
Then I hope congratulations are a thing that's 

rather neat, 
From a man who isn't farming and is mighty 

short of wheat, 
For be sure that I extend them, as this pean will 

advise. 
When wheat is worth a dollar, with a tendency 

to rise. 



THE LAND WHERE OUR DREAMS COME TRUE. 

THE LAND WHERE OUR DREAMS 
COME TRUE. 



I 



N the land where our dreams come true, little 
one, 

In the land where our dreams come true, 

We will bathe in the waters of Aidenn that run 

From the glorified land, from the land of the sun, 

And we'll joy in the prize that our life-efTort won. 

In the land where our dreams come true, 

Little one. 
In the land where our dreams come true. 

There are those whom we loved in the long, long 
ago. 
In the land where our dreams come true, 
And we'll look in their eyes with the lovelight 

aglow. 
And we'll walk by their side where the calm 

waters flow, 
With a peace in our hearts that the glorified 
know, 
In the land where our dreams come true, 

Heigh-ho, 
In the land where our dreams come true. 



THE LAND WHERE OUR DREAMS COME TRUE. 

The hopes that have perished shall waken again, 

In the land where our dreams come true; 
They will troop to our side from the yesterdays' 

fen, 
From the valley of doubting, the shadowy glen; 
They will come with a blessing to children of 
men, 
In the land where our dreams come true, 

Do you ken, 
In the land where our dreams come true. 

So we'll turn from the past and its wrack, dear 
heart. 
To the land where our dreams come true; 
Where the miles shall not sunder or hold us 

apart, 
But the hope that we knew into being shall start, 
And to know and to love is the ultimate art, 
In the land where our dreams come true, 

Dear heart. 
In the land where our dreams come true. 



138 HERE'S TO THE MAN IVHO RISES AGAIN. 



HERE'S TO THE MAN WHO'RISES 
AGAIN. 

"NT OW here's to the man who rises again! 

■^ ^ I know that the battle is long; 

We dream of the morrows, and dreaming is vain, 

Downbeat in the maddening throng. 
We walk and we stumble; we fall as we go, 

And our hopes are but written in vain, 
But we still may arise from the heaviest blow, 
Stand stalwart, erect, with our face to the foe; 
And there's no one more worthy of honor, I 
trow, 

Than the man who arises again. 

We are down in the valley; the mists are about. 

The pitfalls lie close at our feet; 
We send our Ideals to turmoil and rout, 

And many's the failure we meet; 



HERE'S TO THE MA A' HHO RISES AGAIN. I39 

We are crushed in the struggle; we're weary and 
worn, 
And we feel that our hopes are in vain. 
But still in the battle we're held and upborne 
By the thought that not vainly we sigh and we 

mourn ; 
Though the burden of failure in anguish we've 
worn, 
We may rise to our stature again. 

To throw and to lose is a wearisome tale, 

A tale that is old as the sun; 
But who dares to write that the thrower shall fail 

Till the sum of his throwing is done? 
In the uttermost failure success may be writ, 

For we stumble, the height to attain ; 
In the wardrobe of nature there's not a misfit, 
And the height over yonder is ours, I submit. 
If, crushed and downfallen, we still strive for it, 

And rise, though we're stricken, again. 



I40 HER FAITH NEVER FALTERS. 



HER FAITH NEVER FALTERS. 

TV yr Y little daughter comes to me, 

And whispers, " I am sorry; " 
And I — I take her on my knee 

And tell her not to worry; 
And then I kiss her, and she knows 

How tenderly I love her. 
We're just two children, I suppose; 

I not a whit above her. 

And then she lays her cheek to mine, 

And says, " I love you dearly; " 
And in my eyes the teardrops shine — 

My heart zvHl act so queerly. 
She says, " My papa is so good," 

Though I'm unworthy of her. 
Dear little type of maidenhood, 

I love her, oh, I love her. 



HER FAITH NEVER FALTERS. 14I 

I think sometimes I'd like to go 

And tell her " I am sorry," 
For, oh, my feet do falter so 

'Mid life's unending worry. 
Dear, loyal heart! Suppose I should 

(I have done so — or nearly). 
She'd only say, " My papa's good. 

I love him, oh, so dearly." 

So, 'mid the storm of life and years. 

My little daughter's kisses 
And loyal faith have dried my tear-?, 

And cares exchanged for blisses. 
And, as I write, if tears will start. 

They're tears of gladness merely. 
For these words bless my weary heart: 

" I love my papa dearly." 



142 IVHEy I GO OUT ON MY WHEEL. 



WHEN I GO OUT ON MY WHEEL. 

"fir HEN I go out on my wheel, the world 

* ' Goes scurrying past, as the Hand unfurled 
The leagues of hurrying brown or green; 
And I see the little white houses between 
The hedges and trees, and the air strikes hard 
On my lifted face, and the odor of nard, 
Of myrtle and roses, exalts like wine. 
As I ride on my wheel and the world is mine. 

When I go out on my wheel, the town 

Fades away — fades away into stretches of brown; 

And I hear the murmur of brooks that run 

Through the shady nooks till they greet the sun. 

And it's ho! oho! for the joy I feel 

As I ride, as I glide, on my steed cf steel; 

And the day and its moments are all divine, 

As I ride on my wheel and the world is mine. 



WHEN I GO OUT ON MY WHEEL. 143 



When I go out on my wheel, I know 

That back to the toil and the grind I must go; 

But I do not mind as the moments fly. 

For the world is fair and its child am I. 

So it's ho! for the hedges that glide and glide, 

And it's ho! for the brooklets that hide and hide, 

And it's ho! for the day with its smile benign. 

When I ride on my wheel and the world is mine. 



144 A SONG FOR THE RANK AND FILE. 



A SONG FOR THE RANK AND FILE. 

"V TOT to the brave commanders who ordered 

the boys to go 
Where the hail of death beat on them and the 

blood of the brave must flow; 
Not to the ones who wore the straps, though 

theirs is the hero's claim, 
And their names and their deeds are written on 

the wonderful scroll of Fame, 
But to those, unsung, unhonored, who marched 

at their country's call 
Where lives went out to the battle shout and the 

flag was a funeral pall; 
To these, the humbler heroes, who marched 

Avhere their duty lay; 
To the soldiers who bore the muskets, I'm sing- 
ing a song to-day. 



A SONG FOR THE RANK AND FILE. 145 



To the soldiers who bore the muskets — for them 
not a hope of fame, 

Nor the witch'ry that lingers ever in that mys- 
tical spell, a name. 

No dream of the future lured them, nor the heat 
of ambition's breath. 

As they shouldered their muskets calmly and 
marched to the valley of death. 

Where the Cuban suns beat on them, in the 
drench of the tropical rain, 

Or stricken by Spanish bullets, they took up the 
burden of pain. 

They saw but their duty, and did it — no hope of 
the laurel or bay, 

And so to the boys with the muskets I'm sing- 
ing a song to-day. 



146 A SONG FOR THE RANK AND FILE. 



The world has praise for its heroes, a chosen 

and honored few, 
But I say that they all are heroes, the boys who 

have worn the blue. 
They went at their country's summons; they of- 
fered their gift of life, 
And what could the ones we honor do more in 

the nation's strife? 
Unnamed in the " late dispatches," and weary 

and worn the while, 
They marched where the bullets whistled, the 

men of the rank and file; 
So others may chant their praises, the chosen 

and honored few, 
I sing to the boys with the muskets — the men in 

the unstrapped blue. 



HUSHABY, LULLABY. 147 



HUSHABY, LULLABY. 

HUSHABY, lullaby, my little men; 
The sandman comes, but he goes again. 
Hushaby, lullaby, little wee maids; 
The round world turns and it seeks the shades, 
And Sleep comes stealing adown, adown, 
And he closes the eyes of blue or brown, 
And he weaves his net and it holds you thrall— 
Hushaby, lullaby, little ones all. 

Hushaby, lullaby. One little star 

Is peeping adown from afar, so far 

That its great white light is a slender beam 

When it reaches the world where the babies 

dream, 
A slender beam that can only kiss 
The little wee heads— for it came for this — 
Ere it dies away in a glimmer small — 
Hushaby, lullaby, little ones all. 



148 HUSHABY, LULLABY. 

Hushaby, lullaby. Life is a maze 

Where blindly we wander through wearisome 

days, 
Through wearisome days when the spirit is 

numb, 
Till out of the shadows the little ones come. 
Then mothers stoop to them to kiss and caress, 
And the souls of the fathers they gladden and 

bless; 
For straight from the heavens God's angels they 

call— 
Hushaby, lullaby, little ones all. 



IN OUR LAND OF CALIFORNIA. 149 



IN OUR LAND OF CALIFORNIA. 

WJ HEN the daylight all has faded and the 

• ' sunbeams are at rest, 

When the last faint streak of crimson dies to 

ashen in the west; 
When the god of day and glory hides his face 

behind the world, 
And the earth is like a maiden in a mantle dew- 

impearled, 
Then beyond the untrod spaces, and beyond the 

misty bars. 
In their distant, distant places shine the multi- 
tude of stars; 
But their utmost, tender splendor, it is showered 

on us here. 
In our land of California, in our Summer land 

of cheer. 



ISO IN OUR LAND OF CALIFORNIA. 



There is glory in our sunlight as it sparkles o'er 

the plain, 
As it laughs adown the valleys till the valleys 

laugh again; 
But it's only when the starlight shimmers, glim- 
mers down the world 
That back unto their hidden home the brood of 

trouble's hurled. 
For who could harbor discontent when comfort's 

everywhere, 
When peace is in the tranquil night and peace is 

in the air; 
When every breeze that fans your cheek seems 

whispering, " Rest is here," 
In our land of California, in our Summer land 

of cheer. 



IN OUR LAND OF CALIFORNIA. 15 1 



That gray old mantle yonder, with its sparkling 

diamonds set, 
Beyond its utmost border is the Land of Care 

and Fret; 
And every star that sparkles there is where an 

angel stands, 
And every breeze that whispers bears a blessing 

from His hands. 
But in the Eastern country, lo! the mists are in 

the way, 
And so the benediction's lost, the blessing goes 

astray; 
But I think if man will listen he will hear that 

blessing here. 
In our land of California, in our Summer land 

of cheer. 



152 REACH DOWN FROM YOUR HE A VEN. 



REACH DOWN FROM YOUR HEAVEN. 

TD EACH down, reach down from your heaven. 

My love whom I loved so well, 
For my day sinks down to its even. 

And the darkening shadows dwell 
Where my heart like a monk is sitting 

Mid the wrack of its wasted years, 
And my soul of its hopes is knitting 

A shroud that is bleached by tears. 

Reach down, reach down from your heaven, 

For I dream in the mist-hid sphere, 
The God to your soul hath given 

The right of returning here, 
And, lo! when the twilight presses 

Its seal on my dreamy eyes, 
You come with the old caresses, 

And care from my spirit flies. 



REACH DOWN FROM YOUR HEAVEN. 153 



They say, where the white rose blooming 

Smiles back to the smile of its God, 
You lie in the daytime and glooming, 

Asleep 'neath the life-giving sod; 
But I fathomed the lie that they told me 

When you came in the even's shade 
To kiss and caress and enfold me, 

With your heart to my warm heart laid. 

Then the years turned back in their creeping, 

And the past was again to-day, 
And I knew that you waked from your sleeping 

To lighten the weary way 
I walk through the tear-wet valley 

Which leads to the hills of light, 
Where the angels of happiness rally 

And His smile breaks the seal of the night. 

Reach down, reach down from your heaven. 

Lest my soul in its helplessness fall. 
And I take of the world's dread leaven 

That poisons the spirit of all. 
Then whisper me upward and onward. 

Though they tell me my dream is a lie; 
For the soul that cleaves starward and sunward 

Shall live though the universe die. 



154 THE POOR LITTLE BIRDIES. 



THE POOR LITTLE BIRDIES. 

' I ""HE poor little birdies that sleep in the trees, 
■*• Going rockaby, rockaby, lulled by the 
breeze; 
The poor little birdies, they make me feel bad, 
Oh, terribly, dreadfully, dismally sad, 
For — think of it, little one; ponder and weep — 
The birdies must stand when they sleep, when 
they sleep; 

And their poor little legs — 

I am sure it is so — 
They ache, and they ache. 

For they're weary, you know. 
And that is the reason that far in the night 
You may hear them say " Dear-r-r! " if you lis- 
ten just right. 
For the poor little birdies would sleep on the 

bough. 
And they want to lie down, but they do not 
know how. 



THE POOR LITTLE BIRDIES. 155 

Just think of it, darling; suppose you must stand 
On those little brown legs, all so prettily 

planned; 
Suppose you must stand when you wanted to 

sleep, 
I am sure you would call for your mama and 

weep. 
And your poor little legs, they would cramp, I 

have guessed, 
And your poor little knees, they would call for a 

rest; 

And you'd cry, I am sure, 
For so weary you'd be; 
And you'd want to lie down, 
But you couldn't, you see. 
And that is the reason why we should feel bad 
For the poor little birdies, who ought to be glad; 
For they want to lie down as they sleep on the 

bough; 
They want to lie own, but they don't know 

how. 



THE BROOK THA T RAN DOWN TO THE MILL. 



THE BROOK THAT RAN DOWN TO THE 
MILL. 

T MET you that night at the charity ball, 
And you looked like a fairyland queen, 
And your smile was so gracious it held me in 
thrall, 
A most willing captive, I ween; 
And I wondered, I wondered — perhaps it was 
wrong — 
If then you remembered them still, 
The days when we waded the afternoons long 
In the brook that ran down to the mill. 

I am only a scribe, with a pencil for fate, 

While you are a fairyland queen. 
But someway I thought as the moments grew 
late 

That perhaps you remembered that scene. 
When two little children, with little bare legs. 

And voices with laughter athrill, 
Dug deep in the sand for the brown turtle's 
eggs. 

Near the brook that ran down to the mill. 



THE BROOK THA T RAN DOWN TO THE MILL. 

And I wondered, I wondered — perhaps it was 
wrong — 

If you wouldn't be willing, you know, 
To wander again to that country of song 

Where the barefooted little ones go; 
And I would go with you; my pencil should fall, 

And my fancy should rest at its will, 
While with pin-hooks we'd fish for the "shiners" 
o'ersmall 

In the brook that ran down to the mill. 

Oh, queen of the fairyland, little bare feet 

Are hardly a dress-party theme, 
But, someway, to me is their memory sweet, 

As their patter I hear in my dream; 
And — honest — whatever life's glories may be. 

Would you not barter all for the thrill 
That you knew in the past when you waded with 
me 

In the brook that ran down to the mill? 



158 AS IVE JOG ON TOGETHER. 



AS WE JOG ON TOGETHER. 

T LOVE my love, and she loves me. 

We jog along together 
O'er rocky upland, flowery lea, 

Through fair or stormy weather. 
And if the day bring naught of cheer, 

Or if the way be weary, 
'Tis all forgotten when she's near. 

My dearie, oh, my dearie. 

Sometimes the mists about us close, 

Of doubt and boding blended, 
And where we journey neither knows, 

Nor where the journey's ended. 
Yet do we but the closer press. 

While fogs creep o'er the heather, 
And still we feel that life doth bless, 

As we jog on together. 



AS IVE JOG ON TOGETHER. 159 

A little homely home of cheer; 

Two hearts that love me dearly — 
If this bring not a heaven here, 

I know it does it nearly. 
So if the suns shall shine or hide, 

Be fair or foul the weather, 
I'm full content the end to bide 

While we jog on together. 



l6o -AfV BROTHER'LL BE ALL RIGHT: 



"MY BROTHER'LL BE ALL RIGHT." 

T ALWAYS was in those old days the family's 
blackest sheep; 

Somehow I couldn't curb the blood that in my 
veins would leap. 

My cousins walked a straight-hewn path accord- 
ing to a rule. 

And rarely swore, and never fought nor " hook- 
ey " played at school; 

And all my uncles shook their heads and said, 
" He will go bad; 

There never was more cussedness boiled down 
in one small lad." 

But whatsoever they all vowed, and whatsoe'er 
my plight. 

My sister stood right up and said, " My brother'll 
be all right." 



'My BROTHER' LI. BE ALL RIGHT." l6l 



She didn't say, " My brother u," you mind — 

she didn't dare; 
But when she said, " My brother'll he" I'd vow 

right then and there 
That though I fell and barked my shins until 

they were a sight, 
I'd rise again and prove at last that that dear 

girl was right. 
And so her trust would follow me, for boys, you 

know, like men, 
Whene'er they fall need human faith to pick 

them up again; 
And few I think are ever lost or conquered in 

the fight 
Who somewhere know one soul that says, " My 

brother'll be all right." 



l62 "MY BROTHER' LL BE ALL RIGHT: 



Sometimes in that sweet hour before the daylight 

all had fled 
My sister'd creep into my arms and rest her bon- 

nie head 
Upon my shoulder, and she'd tell of all she 

dreamed for me. 
Oh, loyal heart of foolish faith! Through tyes 

bedimmed I see 
The eyes of blue her soul looked through, the 

face with love aglow, 
And scarcely will my heart believe 'twas long, so 

long ago, 
That golden hour; for still I hear as 'twere but 

yesternight 
The words she whispered in my ear, " My 

brother']! be all right." 



'J\fy BROTHER' LL BE ALL RIGHT:' 163 



"Twas long ago; the frost of Time has cooled my 

youthful blood; 
No more it hurries to and fro, nor runs a restless 

flood. 
The miles are wide 'twixt her and me; the years 

ar; long between; 
She walks where earth's asleep in white, and I 

where it is green; 
Yet does her faith still urge me on, and whisper 

me, " Be true," 
To fight my fight, and, stumbling oft, the battle 

yet renew; 
And I reply: Oh, sister mine, though dark may 

be the night, 
I'll justify the trust that said, " My brother'll be 

all right." 



1 64 KNEE-DEEP IN CLOVER. 



KNEE-DEEP IN CLOVER. 

TV" NEE-DEEP in clover the way I used to be, 
■'■ ^ When earth was more like Heaven than 

now it seems to me; 
When the bees were droning 'round me as if 

they didn't care 
To work too hard with laziness just pulsing in 

the air; 
When skies were clear, so crystal clear that I 

could look up through 
And sort of fancy that I saw the things the an- 
gels do; 

When far or near, 
And rising clear, 
The notes of birds fell on my ear; 
With chipmunks sitting on the fence and talking 

back to me — 
Knee-deep in clover the way I used to be. 



KNEE-DEEP IN CLOVER. 1 65 

Knee-deep in clover, with robins chirping 
'round, 

And all the world about me just running o'er 
with sound; 

Fellow whistling yonder merry as could be; 

River dimpling in the sun as if 'twere wooing 
me; 

Fragrance of the blossoms — nothing like it 
now — 

Nature smiling on me as she's forgotten how; 
A dream of peace. 
To never cease 
Till life gives memory her release; 

With gladness whispering in my heart and fill- 
ing, thrilling me — 

Knee-deep in clover the way I used to be. 



1 66 TENDERLY TAKE AND HOLD THEM. 



TENDERLY TAKE AND HOLD THEM. 

npHY strong right hand, O, my Father, 

"*■ Reach down and tenderly press 
To the eyes where the teardrops gather; 

Reach down with a soft caress, 
And through the dark night spaces 

Let dreams like the angels come, 
To gladden with memory's graces 

The hearts by their pain made numb. 

With eyes that are wistful and weary 

They look to the shadowy veil. 
And still, are the long hours dreary. 

And still do the visions fail. 
Then come when the night's gray streamers 

Float back from the faded day, 
And gladden the pale-faced dreamers 

And soothe all their trials away. 



TENDERLY TAKE AND HOLD THEM. 1 67 

Where the chasms of life are yawning 

They struggle and falter and fall; 
They stand with their eyes to the dawning, 

But darkness is over them all. 
Then tenderly take and hold them, 

As mothers their babes caress; 
In the arms of Thy pity enfold them, 

And soothe them, and comfort, and bless. 

As the breeze to the toiler seemeth; 

As the dews to the heart of the rose; 
As love to the maiden that dreameth; 

As the rains that the desert knows, 
So come when the world lies sleeping, 

Soft rocked in the cradle of rest, 
Thy loved in Thy strong arms keeping 

Close, close to Thine infinite breast. 



1 68 WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED. 



WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED. 



OMETIMES 'long after supper my grand- 



s 

*^-^ sire used to sit 



Where the sunbeams through the window things 

of beauty liked to knit, 
And he'd light his pipe and sit there in a sort of 

waking dream, 
While to bathe his form in glory seemed the sun- 
light's pretty scheme; 
And then, whatever happened, he didn't seem to 

see. 
And a smile lit up his features that used to puzzle 

me. 
And I would often wonder what pleasant inner 

theme 
Had caused that strange and tranquil smile when 

grandpa used to dream. 



WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED. 1 69 



Sometimes, though, when I'd listen I'd hear the 
good man sigh. 

And once I'm almost sure I saw the moisture in 
his eye, 

But whether he would smile or sigh, he didn't 
seem to see 

The things that happened 'round him, and that's 
what puzzled me. 

With the wreaths of smoke ascending as the twi- 
light gathered there. 

The shadows crept about him in the old arm- 
chair, 

And through the evening darkness I could see 
the fitful gleam 

From the embers in his lighted pipe when grand- 
pa used to dream. 



I70 WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED. 



I used to wonder in those days. I wonder now 

no more. 
For now I understand the thing that puzzled me 

of yore, 
And I know that through the twiUght and the 

shadows gathering fast 
Came unto my grandsire, dreaming, the visions 

of the past. 
The boys who played with him were there within 

that little room; 
His mother's smile no doubt lit up the darkness 

and the gloom; 
Again he ran and leaped and played beside an 

Eastern stream; 
The ones he loved were there, I know, when 

grandpa used to dream. 



WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED. 17 1 



And so he smiled — and then she stood, his dear- 
est, at his side, 

With the glow of youth upon her, red-lipped and 
laughing-eyed, 

And he told the old, sweet story, and she lis- 
tened, nothing loth, 

And dreams of hope were written in the happy 
hearts of both; 

And then, by strange transition, he saw her 
pulseless lie — 

And 'twas then I viewed the moisture in the cor- 
ner of his eye. 

Old friends were gathered round him, though 
they'd crossed death's mystic stream, 

In that hour of smiles and sighing when my 
grandsire used to dream. 



172 WHEN THE OLD MAN DREAMED. 



Oh, glad, sad gift of memory to call our dear 
ones back 

And win them from their narrow homes to 
Time's still beaten track! 

Yours was the power my grandsire held while 
twilight turned to night; 

Through you his loved returned again and 
blessed his longing sight; 

And I no longer wonder, when his dreaming I 
recall. 

At smiles and sighs succeeding while the shad- 
ows hid us all, 

For, while my pencil's trailing and I've half for- 
got my theme, 

I, too, am seeing visions, as my grandsire used 
to dream. 



'I'M PRA YING FOR YOU." 173 



"I'M PRAYING FOR YOU." 

'np HERE'S a quaint little letter that lies on 

■*■ my stand, 

A quaint little letter in old-fashioned hand. 
It is lacking somewhat in rhetorical grace, 
And its capital letters at times lose their place; 
It scarcely would bear the most critical test, 
Yet of all correspondence I hold it the best, 
For it ends — ah, in love it was written all 

through: 
" Remember, my boy, that I'm praying for you." 

" Remember, my boy " — oh, an old boy am I, 
With a head that shines back to the laugh of the 

sky. 
But to her I'm " my boy," and I always will be, 
Till the white angel steps 'twixt my mother and 

me. 
And longer — the love that has guarded my way 
I know will not cease at the close of the day. 
But will whisper me still from the infinite blue, 
" Remember, my boy, that I'm praying for you." 



174 "I'M PRAYING FOR YOU." 

" I'm praying for you " — God knows we all need 
That some heart of love to the Father shall plead, 
For our feet will but stumble on life's rugged 

way, 
And we frequently find that we're sadly astray. 
We say to our spirits, " Be brave and press on," 
But the spirit will faint and the soul will grow 

wan; 
And then comes the message, our strength to 

renew: 
" Remember, my boy, that I'm praying for you." 

Remember! Oh, mother, I could not forget. 
Still the dear, loving message my lashes will wet, 
As I read it here written in old-fashioned hand 
In the quaint little letter that lies on my stand; 
And in fancy I see you, as often of old. 
When love kissed your face into beauty untold, 
As you knelt by my cot — With eyes strangely 

dim, 
Your boy does remember you're praying for him. 



THE OLD, OLD SONG. 175 



THE OLD, OLD SONG. 

T T ERE is a song that no one sings; 

Here are the words that no one knows. 
Out of the breath of a thousand springs, 

Out of the chill of a thousand snows, 
Cometh the song that I sing to-day, 
A song that is new and is old alway: 

A little joy, a little woe, 

An unseen path we blindly go, 

A little time for weeping, 

A little hour to walk or creep, 
A little faith but half to keep — 

And then there comes the sleeping. 



176 THE OLD, OLD SONG. 

A song that echoes down the years; 

A song as old as time is old; 
A song we hear with falling tears, 

While heads tvxrn gray and hearts grow cold; 
The old, old song, the song of life, 
A chant from out a vale of strife: 

A little joy, a little woe. 

An unseen path we blindly go, 

A little time for weeping, 

A little hour to walk or creep, 
A little faith but half to keep— 

And then the final sleeping. 



\UL\J >^ -> iw*'^ 



